Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Eventually every hunt leads to moments like these, encounters where a coin is tossed, a die cast, and something inevitable is set in motion. For a seasoned hunter, one who has seen many such moments and knows how to walk the edge expertly, they start feeling insignificant, and often they remain so. But no matter how many times one survives, one must remain aware, and never forget to respect them. For this is a fickle world. And every so often, no matter what one does, the future brews bitter drinks.

***

A ranch rests somewhat haphazardly among muddy fields full of corn and cattle, humid heat casting a haze across all of it. An ill-maintained dirt road slashes crookedly through the landscape, wagons having carved shallow ruts into the soft earth. None of the recent loads had been heavy, then, meaning this place was on the bad side of luck.

A lone figure travels down said road on horseback, pace steady but unhurried. Horse and rider move together so fluidly it betrays a deep resonance speaking of many shared moments of hardship and triumph and countless long days of travel.

The horse is a tall, well-groomed Turkoman with a golden-brown coat, braided mane and tail, a proud bearing, and shrewd eyes. The figure, a purple-braided woman clad in plaid and leather and all the accoutremants of a professional bounty hunter, surveys her surroundings with dark eyes and the detached interest of someone who’d survived many an ambush and had vigilance beaten into their bones, as automatic and easy as breathing.

Rumi squints against the setting sun, tugging her hat lower. Most others would’ve seen a ranch like any other, common as dirt this side of the country, but the details revealed much more than that.

None of the pastures are at capacity, some even barren. Too few workers roam the fields, she guesses perhaps half the corn might end up in the harvest, the other half… 

She gently urges Geum forward, nerves steadied by familiarity. Folk who saw a heavily armed stranger approaching their homestead would often react with caution, if not hostility. Especially if they were involved in nasty business.

She hopes this one will go smoothly.

A magpie as big as her forearm flutters smoothly onto a branch nearby and calls to her with its signature hoarse song. It looks between her and the house, three visible eyes blinking in sequence. She nods at it in silent communication. “Remember, carefully.”

It flies off with a sullen squawk that roughly translates into ‘we’ve done this a hundred times, lay off’.

It is quite articulate. For a not-quite-bird.

The men working the fields close by the road notice her approach. They watch her curiously, gesture in silent greeting, but continue tending the ranch. Not overly suspicious folk then, or hired hands not paid enough to care. She nods to them, meets their eyes, stays casual, even starts quietly humming a tune as she ambles forward. A familiar one. Tends to calm her down, keeps her head clear, focuses the senses. And Geum seems to like her voice.

A warning call sounds from far above, meaning: movement, caution. Someone exits the house before she’s made it past the gate. A woman, mostly indicated by the flowery apron she’s wearing and the glimpse of two dark braids, shotgun perched on her hip. A threat, but a casual one. A wise precaution, in Rumi’s mind. The woman stays on the porch, watching her approach patiently.

It feels like entering the lair of a wild animal, but, for now, all it’s doing is watching you. Part of her relishes in it.

She dismounts Geum just past the final gate, permanently open by the look of its rotten slant, leaves her horse untied, and holds up her hands in a gesture of both greeting and peace. She leaves all weapons but the revolver at her hip and the knife at her thigh behind. There should be no need for anything but her words, God willing. A few more steps are taken, even-paced and slow, enough to get her within comfortable speaking distance, but not too far from her horse in case she needs to run for it.

“What’s your business here?” The woman asks, widening her stance a little. She’s short, strong, handles the shotgun with ease, but not with practice. It’s clear the weapon feels awkward to her. Not entirely alien, but insecure. Most folk wouldn’t get close enough to see the cracks.

The clothes beneath her apron are well-worn, stained from husbandry, sleeves rolled up. Black hair is tamed into twin braids underneath a straw hat. There’s a tan and a flex to her arms telling of frequent and hard manual labor, mostly outside. Her voice is high, strong, only a little waver gives her nervousness away. A little younger than Rumi, if she had to guess, which makes it interesting that she’s the one defending the house. 

Perhaps husband or father are away, or this is an exceptionally young widow.

“I’m just here to ask a few questions, ma’am.” Rumi states calmly, the words so familiar to her mouth they’ve nearly lost all meaning. The magpie, named Sussie after its constant narrow-eyed glare, settles itself at her back, perched high on the edge of a shed. She doesn’t acknowledge it. She knows it’s always there, watching keenly for danger, for any movement she would see too late.

“Why?” The young woman narrows her eyes suspiciously, probably with the intent of threat. Awkward grip or not, there isn’t much Rumi could do against a shotgun at this distance, some risks are in no need of taking.

“I’m looking for a missing woman.” 

“And what does that make you? Too young to be the mother. Wife maybe? Sister? Oh, is it tax evasion? You don’t look like a tax collector, but honestly, I’d be that armed if I carried a lot of money too.”

Rumi had to admit, tax collector stung a little. At least this time she wasn’t assumed to be the night’s entertainment. “A bounty hunter, ma’am. Taxmen travel with armed escorts. And in carriages.”

The woman’s grip on the shotgun tightens and Rumi tenses, ready to burst into movement. “Wait, you’re not here for me, right? I swear I didn’t know those were Mr. Farrow’s pigs.”

Rumi’s lips twitch despite herself, better not ask before she gets pulled into some petty farmer drama. “I’m not here about any pigs, I can assure you there was no bounty out on anyone fitting your description when I checked yesterday.”

The white-knuckled grip on the shotgun relents a fraction. “Well, that’s a relief! Not that I did anything wrong, that is, bounty hunter, ma’am.” For an uncomfortable moment, they just look at each other as the thread of conversation slowly sinks.

“I-”

“So-”

A beat, then the delicate bloom of two smiles, one wry, the other embarrassed. Rumi dips her head for the other woman to go first. 

“So, missing woman, huh. What’s her story?”

Rumi nods, back on track. “Kidnapped or runaway, her family’d like to know she’s safe.”

“Oh, uh…” The woman glances to the side for a moment, almost as if she’s calculating something, before frowning at Rumi. “Well which is it?”

“Pardon me?” 

“Kidnapped, or runaway?” The woman shifts the shotgun from her hip to rest barrel-down on the ground, leans on the railing of her porch, and, for some inexplicable reason, smiles at Rumi. “I’d say which makes a difference.”

Rumi just frowns at her, unsure where this is going.

“See,” the woman’s smile deepens and her cheeks dimple charmingly, “if it was kidnapping, I wouldn’t hesitate to tell you what I know, since the woman would want to be found, right?” 

“...Right.” This wasn’t usually part of the script, and Rumi finds herself subtly off-balance.

“But! If she ran away, well, there might be a good reason for it. Of course, she could be some spoiled rich brat with naive, romantic ideals about the world and in for a terrible time, in which case being found would probably be for the best. But there’s always a chance she actually knows exactly what she’s doing and being found would, in fact, not be in her best interest. In which case I’d feel morally obliged to not tell you a thing. So… which is it?” 

“Uh-” Rumi winces, hands clenching, a flush rising to her cheeks as the words hit close to home. Celine’s calm, disapproving gaze is briefly superimposed onto the stranger’s face before the memory is swiftly suppressed.

It raises a valid question, one she had asked herself: what were the circumstances of the woman’s disappearance? Most of these cases, involving disappeared rich kids and panicked parents, were the same. The kid runs away with a new lover or friend with romantic ideas about the world in their head, finds out reality is far more apathetic and uncomfortable than they imagine, and they are reluctantly grateful to be escorted back home. That, or kidnapping with the intent of ransom, in which case they are also grateful to be escorted home. 

The only thing different about this particular missing person’s case was the detail that said person was apparently ‘hysterical’ and ‘delusional’ and thus potentially dangerous. She figured she’d find out what exactly her target’s deal was once she’d found them and just proceed with caution. Perhaps she could ask the sheriff tomorrow. 

For now, though, she will not lie, even if it works against her. “The contract didn’t specify that, but-.” 

“Then how do you know you’re doing the right thing?” For all her casual demeanor and easy smiles, the words are knife-sharp. The way she looks at her, head tilted and eyes unblinking in challenge, feels like a blade to her throat.

Rumi almost finds herself lured into defending herself but then just sighs. Letting herself be provoked would not help, and she would do her damndest to keep this peaceful. “Look, I just want to know if you’ve seen a woman with pink hair recently, her name is Mira Song, she’s lost and might be unstable, even dangerous, and if you have, I’d appreciate to know the details.”

You’ll never have to see me again, she doesn’t add.

“But you could be a kidnapper!” The woman protests. “She might have escaped your clutches, and now you’re pretending to be helpful while really you’re a criminal!”

“Ma’am-”

“Or you could be someone sent to silence her, or steal her family fortune! You’ve got one of those faces, you know, made for- for scheming and scowling.”

Rumi scowls. “Excuse me-”

“See? Why should I trust you, I don’t know you, for all I know you’re a burglar casing my ranch! Well, I won’t have it.”

“No,” Rumi uses her best soothing tone, “I-”

The woman, in a motion more quick and smooth than Rumi is comfortable with, whips her shotgun back up and aims it straight at her. “Well? What do you have to say for yourself?”

Rumi takes a step back, heart rate spiking, hands placating. She hears Sussie squawk in alarm behind her and flutter further to the side, out of any potential crosshairs. This is going entirely off-rails. She can feel a familiar tingle start in her hands and feet. Suddenly the sighs and creaks of the house become audible. She can smell something cooking, hearty, full of meat, someone’s gentle perfume on the breeze mixing with sunheated corn and wet earth. There are freckles on the woman’s face, her brown eyes are flecked with dark gold and darker green, her hands are not shaking. The thing rising up within her is decisively coaxed back down, quieted, restrained. “I swear,” she talks fast and low, almost practiced, “I’m here in the name of the law. The sheriff sent me here, said he heard talk of a woman fitting the description in the area a few days ago. You can inquire with him, if you wish, he can confirm I’m here on legitimate business. There’s no need to start shooting.”

“What’s your name?” The question is asked as if they’re at the saloon, sitting next to each other at the bar for a casual evening drink.

“I, uh- what?”

“Your name, so I can ‘inquire’.” An impish grin, “you know, like you said.”

“Rumi Kang,” Rumi nearly goes to tip her hat in pure reflex, and then hides a grimace. Stupid move when someone’s got an itchy trigger finger. “A… pleasure to meet you, ma’am.” 

No sign of recognition, only a pleased tilt of the woman’s head. “Oh, that’s a pretty name! I’m Zoey Jones, if you were wondering. You’re very polite, you know, even with a gun pointed at you. That’s pretty admirable. Does that mean it happens to you a lot?”

Rumi blinks, looking from Ms. Jones’ genuinely welcoming smile to the shotgun still aimed at her. “Not quite like this, I admit.”

“Hm? What makes me so different?” Ms. Jones seems almost eager to find out.

“You don’t seem as eager to get rid of me, despite…” She gestures at the gun, “and you haven’t yelled at me either.”

“I find it important to be a good host, even if my guests are uninvited and look suspicious.” A sage nod, then a flash of teeth, not aggressive but not entirely friendly either. “You could have been a distressed runaway looking for shelter from her dreadful family, for example.”

Rumi huffs in amusement before she can stop herself. They both know she looks very much like a bounty hunter, well-armed, well-prepared, and well-accustomed to the road. But, point taken.

Ms. Jones’ delighted chuckle at her reaction makes her cheeks darken with embarrassment, and she quickly schools her features back into calm neutrality. Suddenly all she wants to do is retreat. This interaction has spiraled into something altogether unexpected, her control rapidly slipping, and she’s learned absolutely nothing of use, nor does it look like she will today. Staying longer, she fears, might only cost her more of her dignity, and it might be wise to preserve as much of it as she could.

She would return another time, better prepared. Somehow.

Ms. Jones grins mischievously, dimples returning with a vengeance, lowering her gun. “However pleasant our conversation was, Ms. Kang, I think you should leave. I’ve got horses to feed. Don’t bother coming by until I’ve confirmed about your business with the sheriff. If you do, I will shoot you before you’re past my gate.” 

There isn’t a doubt in Rumi’s mind that Ms. Jones would. She huffs, exasperation mixing with a weird sense of approval. “Fair enough. I hope to see you again soon, ma’am.”

“How forward!” Ms. Jones laughs, a warm and carefree sound, “I see you’ve made chasing women your specialty!”

“No! I-I didn’t mean-” Rumi scrambles, annoyed and flustered, “I’m a bounty hunter, it’s professional! I’m not here to- oh forget it.” She turns on her heel, stalks to her horse, mounts it quickly, and starts off at a trot without looking back. Not because she doesn’t want to, but because she doesn’t trust herself to not somehow make things even worse, and reveal just how red her cheeks are to the woman probably still laughing at her from her porch. She’s not sure the warmth at her back is from the sun or those brown eyes watching her leave.

Technically that could have gone worse, but somehow worse would have probably left Rumi feeling better. Getting shot at is simple, getting yelled at is simple. People understand what she is, what she does, and either help or hinder. Not this… thing in between. Not debates and questions and introductions. Not this dueling and circling with words. Celine had tried to teach her to navigate these kinds of battles of will, but the moment Rumi loses control of a conversation she just… scrambles. Besides, her job rarely offers chances for significant conversation. In understated terms: she’s rusty. 

Her life contains simple conflicts, survival, hunts and fights. Talking pretty she leaves to pinkertons, the lawmen. Bounty hunters get a contract, track the target, and deal with them as instructed. That’s the life she chose, the one that suits her. It isn’t often she is so thoroughly disarmed, and without a single step on Ms. Jones’ part.

With a smooth glide ending in a flutter, Sussie lands on Geum’s head, tilts their head, and she swears it’s mocking her with a smirk. At the same time Geum huffs at her, tilts his head to the side to make eye-contact and bares his teeth in a way Rumi can only describe as amused. At her expense.  “Oh shut up.”

Her only two companions are both assholes.

She sighs as she goes over her plans, knowing this would cause a hitch. Hopefully other folk will be more direct so as to not warrant a return. The town and its surrounding farms are a map she is still filling in, optimizing how many people and places she can cover per day by subdividing the region into smaller pieces, based on ease of access, travel time, and which folk are known to frequent the saloon. The more efficient she is at gathering information, the bigger the chance she will solve this thing before others come sniffing around.

Maybe she can save some money and time if she camps outside of town? No, she should show her face, become familiar, build trust. The community is small, protective, they might tell her more if she consistently shows she means no harm. Maybe she can do some odd jobs to help mitigate the cost of a longer stay…

Something pulls at her before she crests the hill, and she stills. For a moment she thinks she sees a trill in the Honmoon, a shimmer stirring around her, but it’s merely the setting sun reflecting off a sea of corn. If there were demons nearby, it would let her know with unerring certainty. 

Her return to town is uneventful, a slow travel past rolling farm and field, drenched in the soft golden light of dusk. In the saloon, she finds herself sitting by the single dusty window in her room, chatter, cheers, and music beneath her feet while watching the stars glimmer to life until the dark between pulls her up, and in. 

Her sleep is haunted by faceless pink-haired women always at her periphery, dissolving into smoke when she grasps at them. And another, just watching. Eyes dark and wide, owl-like, judging her in a way she just can’t figure out, and a too-broad smile. Celine tells her to be better if she wants to see her parents again, but no matter how many bounties she turns in, they remain wish-shaped shadows dancing in the flames.

Chapter Text

Zoey watches Ms. Kang leave with a calculated casualness that wouldn’t hold up to close inspection. It had taken so much self-control not to just go inside, lock the door, and yell at the lady to leave. She should be used to it by now, perhaps, to bluster and run her mouth and brandish her father’s shotgun until the latest ne’er-do-well decided the seemingly easy target was more trouble than it was worth. She knows her small stature doesn’t demand much respect, doesn’t threaten by itself, so she makes herself bigger every other way she knows, turns herself into a weapon any way she can.

The few farmhands that had cautiously watched their conversation return to wrapping up their work for the day after she waves them off with reassuring faux-cheerfulness. She hopes they won’t make too big a deal about it during dinner.

Back inside the house she leans the shotgun just inside the door with a relieved grimace. There’s a moment where she just stands, closes her eyes, and bounces a few times on her feet to shake off the nervous energy, and the block of tension threatening to collapse her spine melts away. Thank God for sensible bounty hunters. She really hadn’t wanted to shoot the woman. She seems nice, a bit stiff, but nice. Not the kind that’s just out for money and thrills, the kind that is in it to make the world a better place.

Maybe. Hopefully. It’s probably wishful thinking, but Ms. Kang hadn’t thrown her weight around, hadn’t swaggered, threatened, or cajoled. She’d been polite, a little overly so, and calm, and Zoey’d even managed to make her blush! She’s proud of that one. 

A giggle escapes despite everything. In any other scenario Zoey’d likely have batted her lashes and tried her luck. With those arms and that scowl… Alas, Zoey is cursed with no time, no money, no energy, and frankly, no desire for anything that could complicate her life further than it already has been. Bounty hunters, even polite ones, only bring trouble. And while that might’ve been exciting in the past, it is possibly the worst idea right now. 

Still, she’d have to verify Ms. Kang’s business with Bobby next time she goes into town. Better make that soon. She’d really rather not have to shoot anyone.

After a few deep breaths and shaking out her hands to get rid of the last of her post-confrontation jitters, she checks the ground floor for people. There’s movement in the kitchen, probably Scott stealing a bit of dinner early, but he never goes deeper into the house.

It’s safe.

For a hopeful moment, she focuses on the ceiling, hoping for the creak of weight shifting on the floorboards, the sigh of a door closing, the scraping of a chair. But there’s nothing. Just the phantom weight of closed drapes and laboured breathing.

The basement door only trills a little when she opens it. She’d oiled it recently. Nothing to be done about the creak of the stairs, though, but she’d moved some of her projects and broken furniture down under the vaguely mumbled excuse of ‘liking the cold and dark’.

She hates the cold and dark but that’s no-one’s concern.

Behind a teetering pile of tactically positioned unused furniture and a dusty shelf of canned goods an old painting leans crookedly over the small gap between shelf and wall. Perfect shelter for a cat, less so a human. Hurriedly, Zoey moves the delicate frame, revealing a somewhat disheveled and pale woman with an unhappy slant to her mouth and long, pink hair.

“She’s gone, Ms. Song, here.” Zoey helps her shuffle up and out of the narrow space, grimacing sympathetically at the grit and dust coating Ms. Song’s shiny hair while marveling at the extremely soft and delicate skin of her hand and wrist. Nothing like Zoey’s, with callouses, cuts, and scars all over, tanned and slightly freckled from her time outside.

A bounty of metaphors lies there, but she saves those thoughts for her evening poetry writing. Something which had thrived recently.

There’s a moment where Ms. Song stretches to her full height, the crown of her head gently brushing the wooden ceiling beam, a quiet groan escaping her as her spine pops, a faint trace of perfume still clinging to her, that leaves Zoey a little dry-mouthed for completely inexplicable reasons. She says nothing as she helps Ms. Song remove the worst of the cobwebs and their inhabitants from her clothes, an ill-fitting assembly of men’s attire. Her pa’s, the only things she had that were big enough to fit such a tall woman.

“Sorry- I mean, I apologise.” She chuckles nervously, “I haven’t cleaned in here in forever.”

“It’s fine.” Ms. Song says, dark eyes difficult to read. She’s not really looking at Zoey, and doesn’t let her finish helping before walking to the squat, grimy window letting in a pittance of yellow-grey light. The fields and road leading up to the house are abstract blurs. Nothing except wind stirs in the view.

“I made sure to wait until she was over the hill. She was alone, from what I could see. My boys didn’t spot anyone else at least.” Zoey speaks quietly, quickly, hands fidgeting. Something about Ms. Song just makes her so self-conscious. She’s overtly aware that, while she is the one offering shelter and Ms. Song is entirely at her mercy, this is a woman whose status is so inconceivably far above her own she might as well have been a peasant housing a queen. The smallest movements, a single word, even a particular look, serve as constant reminders that their worlds are fundamentally different, that this is a woman of incomprehensible means, and Zoey can not afford to forget this even when she is the one holding power in the moment.

Ms. Song simply nods, a modicum of tension leaving her shoulders.

The quiet stretches to the point of discomfort. Ms. Song watches a sliver of world through the window, and Zoey watches her watching. Her pa’s shirt is far too wide on the slender woman and not fully buttoned, the neckline slipping off one delicate shoulder. Something about seeing a woman like this in such rough, simple fabric makes her feel strange.

“Well! uh-” Zoey starts for the stairs, eyes suddenly unable to focus on anything in particular. “I made tea, I’ll bring it to your room. Dinner’s soon, I’ll let you know when it’s safe.”

Ms. Song turns to her, and for a moment it’s like seeing a statue suddenly see you back, but then her face softens almost imperceptibly, and she nods. “Thank you, Ms. Jones.”

A smile dawns on Zoey’s face like the sun, slow and soft and warm, before she dashes up the stairs, fragments of hummed song drifting in her wake as she returns to her routines.

***

Mira scrutinizes the space Ms. Jones just occupied, brows furrowing as she seems to be trying to puzzle something out. She hadn’t dared to catch a glance of the bounty hunter through the sliver of grimy glass. Not that she would have seen much without her glasses, tragic victims of an inelegant escape from a second story window. But she had heard snatches of the conversation outside, enough to know Ms. Jones had kept her word. What she can’t seem to figure out is why.

Ms. Jones had found her sleeping, starved and half-wild, hiding in the barn only three days ago. She’d wielded a shovel with surprising and violent deftness before she’d seen Mira’s… less than stellar state. Mira had barely managed the start of a panicked explanation before she’d been invited in for dinner. Then came the offer of a bed, fresh clothes, even a bath. With no demand for payment and no given deadline. Mira had awoken that first day expecting the law at the door and Ms. Jones pocketing her bounty with a smile.

But she didn’t.

Mira had instead woken up to a note, letters curly and playful, half of the sentences scratched out and started anew, instructing where to find food and which rooms had windows facing places where someone working outside could easily see her. Just like that. She’d been left to her own devices in a stranger’s home as the host worked. The show of trust has been staggering. It’s naive, dangerous, and utterly confusing.

Still, Mira is waiting for the catch. There has to be one. No-one ever does anything without good reason. Payment will be demanded eventually. 

She isn’t complaining, if there is anything she has learned from her parents it is that money made the world go around, and many would do unthinkable things for it, no matter how principled, how civilized. It is the way of things.

She wonders if it’s wise to move on. Clearly people had seen her close by, and this might be only the first of many bounty hunters come sniffing around the property. On the other hand, if she stays, waits it out, they’ll move on eventually. She’ll gladly hide in this dark basement for weeks if that’s what it took.

It isn’t fair to Ms. Jones. 

Sure, she’d taken her in, hadn’t demanded a full explanation -though Mira suspected she’d filled in the blanks fairly accurately- but neither had she signed up for a permanent resident. Mira’s never worked on a ranch before, hell, she’d barely ever seen one before. Her life had consisted of carefully staged social events, rare supervised outings into the city, and a mansion so suffocatingly sterile she’d contemplated simply walking off her balcony.

She’d found little moments of freedom in ‘accidentally’ spilled drinks and secrets, speaking plain truths instead of veiled insults, stolen moments alone on balconies and in garden corners. It hadn’t been enough. Every step taken outside of the carefully curated image of Mira Song had been thoroughly and decisively punished. Anything she enjoyed was eventually taken away for fear of it ‘becoming a distraction’. They’d whittled her life down to nothing, and sculpted her into the statue of a daughter, beautiful and lifeless.

But she deserves better than that, more than that.

She turns from the window to the basement, a clutter of tools, food, broken furniture, infested with spiders and who knows what else, and she’s only ever felt more free once before. That moment she had looked back and could no longer see her home, wind in her hair, palms sweaty, heart in her throat, and a genuine laugh working its way up from somewhere deep in her chest.

She knew she should probably go back to her room, someone could need something down here before dinner. But. Ms. Song had apologised about the rickety chair. One leg had loosened an indeterminate amount of time ago. Mira knows she doesn’t know what she’s doing, but…

An idea forms, unbidden, almost revolutionary. Her debt to Zoey is growing by the moment. Perhaps she can do something to mitigate it somewhat. She makes a pile of tools, hunts down a few rusted nails, and investigates the wonky leg. She doesn’t know carpentry, she’s never held a hammer in her life, but she has little else to lose. Besides, if so many people have figured it out, so can she. How hard can it really be?

Tomorrow, when the house is empty and no-one will find her, for the first time in her life she will fix something.

***

The next morning breaks shimmering and hot, the house groaning as humidity is baked out of the wood. Mira’s room, a small space reserved for guests, rests on the eastern side, and is immediately boiling.

As agreed, she waits until Ms. Jones has served her boys breakfast, after which they all scatter to their work outside of the house. Ms. Jones climbs up the stairs, knocks in the agreed-upon pattern, and brings her what’s left.

It’s simple food, nothing like the complicated meals full of rich spices and complementary spirits Mira is used to, but every day it tastes like relief, like survival.

Only then can she open the curtains and the window, carefully and unseen, to let whatever lazy gusts decide to stir sweep the sweaty, stale air out of the room. Once she’s done eating, she makes her way downstairs, past the door that remains always closed, and roams the few rooms of the house not easily seen from the outside.

The Jones’ book collection is pitiful, but she’d understood literacy was still fairly uncommon in these parts. The few books she hadn’t already known are eagerly devoured. But today she will not haunt this house like some sad widow’s ghost, today she makes her way into the basement and gets to work.

***

Mira had not realized how much time has passed until she hears Ms. Jones call from upstairs. “Anyone, uh, here?”

“Basement!” She replies, before realizing that she does not want Ms. Jones to see the current state of things. It’s bad. Worse than bad. It’s a disaster. It’s-

“What are you working on?”

Mira shoots to her feet, and tries to hide her handiwork behind her. “I…” There is no use lying with Ms. Jones easily able to see past her. “I was trying to fix it.” 

Slowly, dreadfully, she steps aside and lets Ms. Jones see the battle she had thoroughly lost.

“It’s… wow!”

Mira loathes the flush creeping up her cheeks and tries to hide it by looking away, jaw tense. She knows she botched it, but she tried. She tried so hard the entire leg came off. But she’d managed to put it back. Eventually. Except now the chair isn’t just rickety, it’s a device for torture.

“How many nails did you use?” Ms. Jones giggles.

Mira clears her throat. “Seven. I think.” 

“We should probably file this one down.” Mira drags her eyes back to the abomination to see Ms. Jones poke a rusty nail sticking straight up from the edge of the seat.

“Probably.” She is clenching her jaw so hard it is a miracle nothing has popped yet. In her foolish pride, she’d thought fixing a chair was child’s play. Her entire life anything that was broken was either replaced or fixed so quickly she barely registered it. She had realized somewhat the kind of invisible work their servants had done day in and day out, but…

Facing it personally is another matter entirely.

She isn’t prepared for how much it feels like her right to exist is represented by one shitty chair. Survival concerned none but herself, there was no debt involved. This feels like walking into her fathers office to meet his disapproval, except this time it is warranted, and this time she cares. 

Another grim reminder that she has nothing to fall back on, no support, no merit, no prestige. Freedom means risk and vulnerability, she’d known that, chosen it. 

Well here it is. The fruits of her labor.

“...maybe paint over the wood here, so no-one will get splinters.” Ms. Jones is eyeing the thing like it was worth saving, and somehow that pisses Mira off more. 

“You don’t have to pretend.” The words escape her like venom drawn from a wound, leaving an acerbic taste behind. The walls she retreats behind stand firm, the portcullis that had been raised slams closed with no heed for what she leaves on the other side.

“What?” Ms. Jones’s surprise seems genuine.

“To like it.” Mira scowls at her feet, arms folding protectively across her chest, clenches her sore fingers. ”I know I made it worse.”

“Well, yeah,” Ms. Jones shrugs, “but-”

“I will leave tonight.” She promptly turns and marches upstairs, into her- the guest room, leaving a flabbergasted Ms. Jones behind. 

Ms. Jones is simply too polite, too kind, to say it, but Mira knows she’s a burden. She is a drain, a waste, not worth the effort. Perhaps her parents were right to choose her brother, maybe they had seen something that, flawed as she was, she couldn’t. It will be better for everyone if she just leaves. Getting further away might be better anyway.  

Mira begins gathering her meager possessions from their original pile and throwing them onto a new, more messy pile. Where they deserved to be. Because they were hers.

It’s not long until quick footsteps climb the stairs and Ms. Jones appears in the doorway. “Ms. Song? Oh hey, whoa, no!” 

Ms. Jones moves to stand in front of Mira, trying to catch her eyes. She reaches out, nearly touches her wrist, before she hesitates. “I’m not sure why you think I’m pretending, but I’m not going to kick you out because you tried to help. That’s not… That’s not what this is.”

“What is this then?” Mira’s shrug tries to be casual, but there’s a curling to her spine and an angle to the fold of her arms that feels defensive, guarded. She still doesn’t look at Ms. Jones. She can’t. “I know I’m a burden to you. I’ll just get you in trouble, I can’t… I can’t do anything for you. I don’t even have money!” 

“And?”

“What do you mean, and?” The anger, previously aimed at herself, lashes out at Ms. Jones. “I’m worthless! I’m a stranger! You’re a stranger! It doesn’t make any sense. There has to be something you want, and we both know there’s nothing I have to give. And I can’t stay here just building up debt waiting for you to make up your mind! I won’t be taken advantage of. Thank you for your hospitality, but it’s better for us both if I keep going.”

Before Ms. Jones can reply Mira starts unbuttoning her borrowed shirt.

“What are you doing?” Ms. Jones whirls around with a flustered squeak and, to be safe, slaps a hand over her eyes.

“Giving back what you gave me. I won’t be more in debt to you than necessary”

“Please don’t. You think a half-naked missing woman coming from my ranch isn’t going to attract attention?! They’ll think my ranch is a den of sin and depravity! And then you’ll freeze at night, they’ll find your body, and hang me for murder!” Ms. Jones’s panic makes Mira pause. That is… not entirely the reaction she was expecting. 

Seemingly taking Mira’s silence as a good sign, Ms. Jones takes a deep breath. “Okay. I’m going to go downstairs and make us coffee, give you some time to breathe, then we’re going to sit and talk about this, okay? And don’t go and run away on me.”

Mira stares at the back of Ms. Jones’ head for a moment, trying to wrangle her emotions back into their neat little cabinets. “Fine.”

“Great! Take as much time as you need!” She hurries out of the room, hand blocking her peripheral vision and the tips of her ears a suspicious tint of red.

When Mira comes downstairs, after a productive while of panicking and subsequently gathering herself, a process with which she has significant expertise, she finds Ms. Jones already sitting at the kitchen table, picking at the wood with her nails. Two mugs spilling thin whirls of steam lie waiting, scent bitter and warm in the air.

It’s her favorite room in the house, because it’s the most lived in. It’s clearly a kitchen that sees many boots pass through, and there’s an organization to the clutter that feels both calculated and natural. The southern afternoon light bathes the space in the arhythmic cadence of a windy cloud-strewn sky. There’s nearly always something cooking, the smell of hearty meals and sharp herbs seeped into the wood. Mira had overheard the easy and comfortable back and forth between Zoey and the men that come by to work the ranch every day enough to understand it is a camaraderie grown through years of faithful tending and the knowledge that out here hardship can only be survived together. Despite Zoey being their boss, she treats them like equals, and they treat her like Mira had always wished her brother would have.

When she sits, Ms. Jones nudges a mug closer to her. They breathe into the silence, emotions swirling in private little hurricanes. While Mira sits tall and stiff, ready for the tide to break against her, Ms. Jones leans on an elbow, hunching over her mug and swirling the dark liquid thoughtfully.

“I think we’ve both been so focused on figuring out how to keep you safe, we haven’t really figured out what that means.” Ms. Jones studies her drink carefully. “And like you said, we’re still strangers, so we won’t know each other's rules and expectations if we don’t talk about them. So. Let’s talk.”

Mira nods stiffly. “It’s your house, Ms. Jones.”

The formal tone makes Ms. Jones look up with her nose scrunched up in mild distaste. “Okay, first thing, no need to be so formal with me, alright? Zoey is just fine. And second, while it’s my house, this ain’t a prison and you sure ain’t a prisoner. I will never ask you to do anything you don’t want to do, unless it’s about keeping yourself safe. You’re free to leave at any point. And if you want to help with any chore, perhaps let me teach you how things work beforehand? Oh, and, my rooms on the second floor are private, but you already knew that one.”

Ironclad rules and clear consequences for breaking them, that had been Mira’s world her whole life, that’s the way these things have always worked. She sips the coffee, and waits for Ms. Jones to begin laying down the law in earnest.

But she doesn’t. She’s looking at Mira expectantly. “...Yes?”

“What do you want?”

What does she- Hold on, that’s it? “I thought you were going to tell me your rules.”

“I… did?” The surprise seems genuine. 

“Those aren’t rules. There must be more.” Mira frowns. They were barely requests. 

“They aren’t?” Ms Jones’ forehead wrinkles adorably. “I mean, I figured I didn’t have to go over the common sense ones, but I would also very much appreciate it if you didn’t burn the house down or steal my cutlery.”

Ms. Jones must notice the white-knuckled grip Mira has on her mug, and softens her tone. “Look, I… I know you’re running from something I don’t really understand. I know I don’t have the whole story. I know that things are really difficult for you, I mean, you’ve lost everything, everything is new and different and strange, and the world is… the world. I know we barely know each other and you’ve got no real reason to trust me. But I’m not like them. Whoever it is you’re running from, I’m not- This isn’t a ‘transaction’. I’m not doing this to get anything out of you, or to feel powerful, or, I don’t know what these people care about.” 

Her skepticism must show on her face, because Ms. Jones, Zoey, leans back with a bitter laugh. “My pa would hate that I helped you. Tell me you were trouble, that we couldn’t afford another mouth to feed, that you can’t even contribute. He’d tell me I’m being foolish and naive and that I need to put myself first, like everybody else does.”

Mira nods in resigned agreement.

“But I don’t care. Do you know why? Cause you tried to fix my chair, and I didn’t even ask, and you didn’t know how, but you did it anyway. I don’t care that it’s worse now, because now I can look at it and remember that I helped someone, and that someone helped me back. That’s why I don’t care what my pa thinks, he’s wrong, it’s worth it. Yeah this could go horribly for both of us but… There are things I can’t fix, but I can help you, and maybe you can help someone in the future, and then the world might not be so terrible after all. And I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if I let something bad happen to someone when I had the means to help them. So no, I won’t be your warden, you’re a free woman, your life is yours, I’ll never stand in the way of that.”

Mira’s stunned silence seems to deflate Ms. Jones, who suddenly seems extremely self-conscious. “I understand if you want to leave, though. It’s not ideal here, I know, you have to hide for so long every day and I can’t imagine how much worse our food is. And I know it stinks, I probably stink, and you’re probably used to nicer beds and-”

“Ms. J- Zoey.” Reading people, past their facades and their masks and their lies and pretty words was a skill Mira had cultivated out of necessity, and she’d gotten pretty damn good at it. The woman in front of her, someone who had helped her as if it was as natural as breathing, had just performed one of the most vulnerable displays of sincerity Mira had seen in her life, and in that moment she felt something fundamental shift in her mind. She knows this will be difficult, that there will be days where she’ll doubt this memory and get in her head. But maybe the freedom she is looking for can be found in hard work and simple food, and the most honest connection she’d ever felt. So she gets straight to the point. “Will you cut my hair?”

***

This might be the most terrified Zoey has ever been in her life. Worse than seeing that bull charge straight at her, worse than finding three strange men in her kitchen in the middle of the night, worse than having a loaded gun pointed at her by a drunk saloon girl who mistook Zoey for her ex, worse than- Well alright, she might be spiraling a little and it’s not so bad. But it’s bad.

They had moved to the kitchen after making sure it was unoccupied and would stay so for a while. Ms. Song had been directed to a chair, moved close to the window for better lighting, and zoey had gone to fetch two things: an old hand mirror, and her best pair of scissors.

“Are you really sure?”

“Ms. Jones.” Ms. Song turns her head to look at her from the corner of her eyes. Steady, always so steady, like she knows exactly what she wants and how to get it. She probably does.

“But… But your hair is so pretty!” Zoey holds the scissors in her hand like they might come to life and go for Ms. Song’s hair at any moment.

“Ms. Jones, if you won’t do it, I will, and the results will be worse.” 

Why did she have to make so much sense? “Alright,” deep breaths, “don’t move.”

“You’ll have to burn it after.”

Zoey whines, devastated. “Why?!”

“For this to work, no-one can find it.”

Fine. 

“Fine. But if you get mad later don’t blame me.” It’s more plea than command, an edge of nervousness making the delivery wilt before it could bloom with conviction.

Zoey can’t see Ms. Song’s face, but the smile is audible when she says, “I won’t.” She’s never been so jealous of a kitchen table before.

Her stomach twists as her hands start gathering long, pink tresses into a bunch. The hair is soft, and shiny, and clearly well taken care of, despite Ms. Song’s recent circumstances. It’s like taking scissors to a painting. Zoey is half-expecting someone to burst through the door and tell her she’s about to destroy something worth more than all her property combined. 

The gentle hiss of metal against metal feels deafening, and Zoey swears she can hear Ms. Song’s hair hit the ground. “Oh god I’m a murderer.”

“It’s just hair.” It’ll grow back, is implied, but Zoey’s caught in a horrible fantasy where Ms. Song’s face suddenly twists with disgust and regret and she has the sheriff arrest Zoey for daring to touch her and uses her substantial wealth to bribe the prison to keep her locked up forever and she has to eat worm-infested bread for the rest of her life. Also for some reason every single dog in the world hates her now.

Clouds drift across the sun and the room dims. Zoey blinks, shakes her head, and snips again. And again. Short enough to fit under a hat, she’d said. Determined to preserve what she can, she stops a little above the shoulders. That much can be hidden easily enough with a little effort. Awkwardly, circling around Ms. Song, she mumbles, “now the front.”

Ms. Song’s regard is heavy and constant while she measures and cuts and combs and tries her best not to make anything crooked. Small pieces of hair drift onto Ms. Song’s shoulders and lap, but Zoey just bites her lip and ignores them. Ms. Song gave permission, this is fine, she’s just watching Zoey and not saying anything and it’s fine.

“Well,” Zoey checks one final time before she puts the scissors down like they burned her fingers. Hesitantly, almost reverently, she picks up the mirror instead and hands it to Ms. Song.

That breathless moment between Ms. Song lifting the mirror and Zoey seeing her reaction lasts an eternity. It feels like Zoey’s heart is being weighed, like she’s being judged for far more than a haircut, like this moment is a crossroads that she will look back on after years and realize what could have been. 

If she doesn’t like it, will she leave? 

The sun returns, shafts of soft light illuminating lazy whirls of dust and glinting in the small tapestry of pink hair on the floor. Ms. Song’s eyes, always seeming so unfathomably dark, judging, measuring, guarded, focused on exits and weaknesses and hidden truths, transform into hearthfires. A rich brown full of warmth and the kind of trust Zoey’s never felt deserving of.

It’s the first time she’s seen Ms. Song in sunlight, she realizes.

And then, to Zoey’s horror, Ms. Song’s eyes crinkle and her mouth curls into a gentle smile, the glint of teeth adding insult to injury.

Forget the sun. Zoey could grow all her fields of corn for years on that smile alone. And she had caused it.

She looks away, heart hammering. Oh this is bad. This is very bad. What is she doing? This is serious business, she needs to keep her head on straight. She has a ranch to run, a fugitive to hide, bounty hunters to rebuff! 

Okay, it’s going to be fine. She crushes easily, but she’ll get over it, she always does. It’s merely due to the lighting, and because Ms. Song trusted her, and because things have been pretty intense lately. 

Ms. Song’s in front of her, saying something, and she reflexively backs away a step. “Uh.. sorry, what was that?”

Those dark eyes are back to analyzing, but Zoey can’t unsee the warmth hidden within them. “It turned out well, don’t you think?”

“Oh, yeah, soon they’ll be lining up at my door, “ her laugh is a touch hysterical, “I’ll branch out to horses, dogs, maybe cows.”

“And once you’ve conquered the world of fashion, you’ll move on to topiary.”

Did Ms. Song just make a joke? “Wait, what’s topiary?”

***

There’s a new layer to their routine now. The steps are the same, but now they are less stiff, less formal, less quiet. Whenever Zoey has a moment where she’s in the house, she finds Mira, and or the first time, they talk. Well, Mira mostly listens, but she is content to do so while Zoey talks about small things, chores, the house’s quirks, strange noises heard outside at night and her theories for which animal is responsible, gossip from town. 

When Zoey returns to her work, it is done so reluctantly, and with the promise to see each other soon. And now, when left to her own devices, Mira slowly starts to tend. Chores that carry little to no risk for causing havoc, a gentler point of entry. Dusting, dishes, that sort of thing. 

It feels good to be useful.

When evening breaks she goes to bed feeling lighter than she ever has, and with the knowledge that soon, once her transformation is complete, she won’t look anything like Mira Song. Soon she’ll find out what life looks like when she’s got dirt under her fingernails and the sun on her face.

Chapter Text

The afternoon sun presses down heavy and hot on field and forest. Rumi wipes her brow as she rereads the set of directions she’d jotted down. Folk in town had warmed up to her after a few days of showing her face and running small errands for cheap pay, as she’d hoped. 

Sheriff Bobby had even put in a good word or two, for reasons she cannot fathom. But she is grateful nonetheless. 

Information has started flowing her way about the ranches and farms in the area, how far to ride, which roads to take, even talk about the families living there with the casual air of a small town absolutely starving for gossip. She usually tunes out once they launch into gossip proper, having no interest in hearing whose child was disobedient and which farmer shortchanged which. Two things had stood out to her, though. Few folk said much about Zoey’s ranch, and the ones who did only mumbled vague things such as ‘haven’t seen them in a while’ and ‘something’s going on’. 

She thought she’d seen a few of the men that had worked Zoey’s fields in town. Drinking at the saloon, running errands, delivering and purchasing goods. Never the woman herself. Despite her curiosity, she knew it wasn’t her business and left it alone.

The first farm today had been a bust. The couple living there had been accommodating enough, told her they’d heard the same rumors she had but hadn’t seen a thing. Nothing about them struck her as suspicious, so she’d moved on. The second, a father and three sons, had chased her off with choice words and the claim they’d never let a stranger on their land. 

The evidence, in the form of several guns pointed at her, had been convincing.

Hopefully this third one works out better.

She takes a left at the third crossing like she’d been told, Geum’s hooves sinking slightly in the still-drying earth. 

Time is not often measured, but if it is, it’s measured in song. Children’s rhymes from her youth, bawdy things she picked up in taverns and from fellow travelers, complicated pieces from theaters she’d managed to attend while in a city. Music, singing, it was an outlet that felt like peace, instead of a harried chase or explosive movements of a fight. It kept her sane on long stretches alone and cold nights. She took to any song like a duck to water, needed to hear it only once, and she knew it in her bones, even the silly ones, even the ones she didn’t like much, they would linger, and she would sing them.

She’s only about four songs in until she sees chimney smoke. 

Sussie is circling high above. They’d been scouting ahead most of the day but hadn’t returned with any significant news. She could tell they were getting restless and hungry, they’d probably disappear soon like they always did at some point. But they always came back when she most needed them.

The farm looks new. Paint fresh, no weeds. The fencing isn’t fully up yet either. She doesn’t bother to count the cows, there are plenty. Two kids are playing by a flutter of laundry. Not a new family, then, but recently moved. She’s approached by a stocky woman, wiping her hands nervously at her dress. “Can I help you?” 

Rumi, still on Geum and feeling like dismounting now would likely only make the stranger more nervous, tries to make herself as non-threatening as possible and smiles apologetically. “Sorry to intrude, ma’am, I’m just wondering if you’ve seen someone recently. Tall woman, pink hair, name’s Mira Song.”

The woman eyes her skeptically. “You ain’t the first asking about this lady today. What’s she done?” 

Well, shit. She’d lost her lead. Someone else is sniffing around. “Oh, she’s no criminal, don’t worry. Just lost. But she might be in a state, her family said she’s prone to hysteric episodes and would like to see her home safe before anything terrible happens.” Bobby had told Rumi that he knew as much as she did, the same information as on the poster. Likely a case of some wealthy baron’s fragile daughter gone missing, maybe dangerous, maybe not, but likely terrified and an easy target for the ill-intentioned. She just hopes that means the woman will eventually turn up by herself and turn herself in, for her own sake.  “Who else asked about her?”

The woman gestures vaguely at the road then rests her hands at her hips. “This group of strange-looking men. Thought they was bandits at first. Gave me a fright they did! They were fine boys, in the end, very polite.”

Rumi stiffens, struggles to keep her smile. “Five of them?”

“I think so,” the woman squints at her, “they friends of yours?”

It can’t be. She hopes, she prays, but it makes sense, it fits. A missing person with such a high bounty, a vulnerable, naive target. It’s exactly what they’d go for. For a moment she becomes untethered, her breathing quickening and a flash of tightness in her gut, limbs all atingle, before she catches it, before she wrangles the panic into submission.

“Colleagues.” Her smile might’ve become more of a grimace as she forces the word out, because the woman’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Well then, I’ll call my wife, she’s the one that saw your lady.” Her eyes narrow in warning, “don’t go making any trouble while I’m gone now will you?”

“Of course.” Rumi nods sincerely, “wouldn’t dream of it, ma’am.” 

The moment she’s no longer being actively watched, Rumi slumps into her saddle and groans. 

Of course. Of course they’re here. A bounty like this is perfect for their little kidnapping scheme. Last time she’d got wind of them they were making trouble a few states over. For them to be here, now… Is it coincidence? Do they know she’s here, too?

Does he?

Sussie lands on the roof of the house and picks at their feathers. All clear, then. She gestures the sign for off-duty, and they trill hoarsely in understanding before taking off.

Geum snorts softly and she sighs. “I know, there’s bound to be trouble now. I just hope we find her before they do.” 

It is no longer only for the reward that Rumi wants to find this Mira Song. The poor woman is now being hunted by something far more dangerous than bounty hunters or bandits.

It’s not much later that the woman returns with another in tow, both talking in big gestures and half-finished sentences. They wore their many years of partnership gracefully. The new woman, in riding gear and tack still slung over a shoulder, eyes her carefully, before nodding. “Alright, I hear you’re looking for a pink-haired lady.”

“That’s right. Do you know anything?”

“Depends, what are your intentions with her?”

“I,” Rumi blinks, “well, take her to the sheriff who’ll then arrange for transport back to her family?”

There’s a moment that feels like a standoff. Rumi’s extremely aware that she’s being measured like livestock at the market, and she reluctantly endures the scrutiny. “So you’ll treat her well?”

Rumi knows she’s trustworthy, but these women have no reason to. So she puts as much of her calm confidence into her words. “Of course, part of my work is escorting her safely. She isn’t a criminal, she’s lost, most likely she needs help. I’m not here to wrangle her, I’m here to help.” 

“Hm.” They look unconvinced. “What’s your name?”

“Ah, Rumi Kang, ma’am.”

Recognition lights the eyes of the first woman, who nudges her wife and whispers something. The glares lessen, and the one with the riding gear nods. “I saw her a few days ago on the road. She looked like she’d been walking for a long time, didn’t have shoes, so I offered her a drink and a chair. She didn’t stay for long, told me nothing either. Continued in the direction of town that same day, haven’t seen or heard about her since.” The woman crosses her arms, something like hesitant interest on her face. It’s not the first time Rumi’s seen people get invested in the stories of those on the run, especially those who’d (claimed to have) done no wrong.

“Then yours is the most recent sighting I know about.” Carefully, she adds, “no bodies have been found. Folk like her often turn up fine. Even if outlaws get their hands on her they’ll ransom her back to her family, and it won’t go well for them if she’s been harmed, they’ll know that.”

Both women nod stiffly, not quite relieved but steadier. Suddenly she’s being smiled at. “It’s hot out, we’ve got a nice spot in the shade and some whisky left, we’d welcome any news from further out if you’ve got any to share.”

“Oh.” Rumi looks at Geum’s braided mane, then at the house, then at the horizon, briefly at the two welcoming smiles aimed her way and then quickly away again, unsure what to do with herself. “That’s… That’s very kind. But I shouldn’t. I’ve got a few more places to visit before dark.” 

“Well, should you change your mind, pass on by, alright? We don’t often get new friendly faces around here.” 

Rubbing her neck awkwardly, Rumi nods. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you.”

The goodbye isn’t quite clumsy, only nearly. Bridge successfully left unburnt. But it lingers with Rumi the entire way back to town, and even then. The invitation, the genuine kindness. She wasn’t more to them than a stranger who might know about something interesting that happened two towns over, and that had been enough. Or, perhaps, they’d wondered how much about her was true. They’d obviously heard something. But it didn’t feel quite like that.

Should she have said yes?

Maybe.

But she would have been something else than they wanted. A little too awkward, a little too feral, all the news she knew was what had happened to her bounties. Most of those stories were ill-suited for good company. And she certainly doesn’t live up to her reputation. Folk always expect someone bigger than life. Someone heroic, fundamentally good, or conniving and gleefully violent. She is none of those things.

It’s better this way.

***

It’s the first time in a while that Zoey rides one of her own carts into town. Certainly the first time since the arrival of a certain fugitive. Thoughts full of warm brown eyes and wheezing coughs plague her the entire way. She feels like there’s a beehive beneath her skin, buzzing and restless. It’s distracting, and she knows she’s making for a terrible shotgun.

Perhaps she should sit in the back on the return journey, switch with Scott.

Their arrival at the general store is warmly welcomed by several townsfolk, but their curious stares do little to calm Zoey down. Too much is happening with her at the center, all she really wants to do is spend quality time with her cows and horses, maybe read them some of her poetry. It does wonders for their mood.

She leaves the unloading of the milk to Scott and Jimmy with a wave. They know she’s got ‘errands’. Just not what kind.

The Sheriff’s office isn’t far, just down the road on the left, but she makes sure to buy a paper from the newsboy, tucking the roll into her belt. It is an indulgence, but… She wants to learn about the world any way she can.

While the town’s main road is swarming with people, few loiter carelessly around buildings housing the law. As if proximity would signal nefarious intent, as if exposure would in turn shift the judgemental gaze of the justice system straight into their souls to dissect their every uncharitable thought.

That’s how Zoey felt, anyway. It’s the same feeling she gets around churches.

But this is Bobby, and Bobby is safe.

The office is a dark wood interior with small cells half hidden around the corner in the back, and several desks not-quite lined up with the walls. It’s quiet, either the usual drunkards were snoring behind their bars, or had decided not to cause trouble last night.

Bobby lifts his hat lazily at Zoey’s entrance, then shoots up with a warm smile. He’s not a tall man, but fills the room with his warm presence instead. He’s always dressed impeccably, but practically, the badge at his chest as well as his moustache polished to a shine. “Zoey! What a pleasant surprise! Come, come, sit.”

He gestures at the chairs opposite his desk, mercifully vacant of criminals, and moves towards a locked cabinet behind his desk. “Whisky? I got this bottle from a lady who was in here asking about a bounty, said she didn’t want it, but it turns out it’s some fancy kind from abroad. I’m not sure she knew what she was giving away, to be honest. But you, my dear, deserve the best!”

“I shouldn’t.” Zoey groans mournfully, then realizes she’s not driving back by herself, “but how could I say no to that? Pour me a finger.”

The whiskey is smoothly poured into two fancy tumblers, one decidedly more full than the other. If she hadn’t known Bobby so well, she might’ve been concerned, but there is nothing he takes more seriously than taking care of his town.

“For the lady.” She takes the glass carefully, sniffing its contents and wincing at the acrid scent. Right, she doesn’t actually like whiskey, she’d forgotten. But now she can’t take it back. She has to commit.

Bobby sinks back in his chair, swirling the contents of his glass in thoughtless habit. “So, what can I do for you?”

“Well, I had an interesting visitor the other day.”

“Oh?”

“She claimed to be a bounty hunter, but she didn’t really seem… the type?” Zoey taps her glass thoughtfully, “I mean, she looked the part, sure, but she didn’t really act like one, except for the part where she tried to ask me questions about her target.”

Bobby nods thoughtfully. “We’ve had a few come through recently, they’re all looking for the same girl, so the chances are high your woman was one of them.”

“All of them?” She hopes she doesn’t sound too interested. Or horrified. “Must be some girl!”

Bobby gestures at the board right by the door. “Mira Song, right there. She’s worth a lot.”

Zoey, doing her best to act casually interested, shuffles closer to the board. MISSING is the first thing that catches her eye, and it coils something in her gut. There’s a picture too, grainy, black and white, but having seen the woman in the flesh, unmistakably Mira. Dour-faced, wearing an expensive dress, hair in some complicated updo, looking at the camera like she’s manifesting it to combust. “She’s worth three thousand dollars?” She asks weakly. 

“It’s a lot for a missing person. Usually they pay that much for a gang or the worst of the worst, I haven’t seen anything above five hundred in a while. Her family must be very worried.” Bobby sips his whiskey and hums contentedly.

“And very rich.” Zoey mumbles. She wonders, not for the first time, what drove Mira away. The woman in the picture is the same, yes, but a far cry from the starved, shivering thing with bleeding feet and wild hair she’d found in her barn.

The smaller text causes bile to rise to her throat. It starts out as she’d expect, more details about Mira’s appearance, the family expressing worry she might’ve been kidnapped, but then… “Approach with caution, she has a history of violent hysteria and delusions, making a swift return to her family of the utmost importance? That’s…”

“The poor girl must be in a terrible way.” Shaking his head, Bobby leans back in his chair. “I hope she’ll be found soon.”

“Yeah.” Zoey swallows the whiskey in one big gulp and shudders with the burn. She doesn’t really taste it. “Me too.”

She sinks back down in her chair with a sigh, setting the fancy tumbler safely on Bobby’s desk.

“What did your woman look like?”

“Hm?” Her heart skips a beat, but then she realizes he’s talking about the bounty hunter. “Oh! Purple braid, expensive horse, Turkoman, I think. And really nice-” Abort! “Uh, boots. She gave me a name, Rumi Kang.”

“Ah, yes. She’s been in town since Saturday. Came by when she arrived to inquire about Ms. Song. I’ve seen her talk to more folk. She’s staying at the saloon.” He leans forward with a conspiratorial grin. “Rumor is Abigail and Jonathan are both sweet on her, but you didn’t hear it from me!”

Zoey rolls her eyes. “Abigail is sweet on anyone with money, and Jonathan is sweet on anyone with a pulse. And I think Ms. Kang is way too-” Abort! “Busy. With her work. Probably.” 

“You’re probably right, she’s known for being a bit of a bloodhound, once she’s got a trail there’s nothing that can stop her!” The glint in Bobby’s eyes looks suspiciously dreamy.

Zoey perks up. “Wait, you’ve heard about her? Before she came here?”

While seemingly casually dismissive, the way his hand waves tells Zoey that Bobby is very invested. “Oh, yes, she’s infamous.” 

Zoey’s hands slam on Bobby’s desk as she gets in his face. “Tell me everything!”

He recoils a little, unprepared for the intensity aimed his way. “Well, I admit I’m not sure how much is true and-”

“Everything, Bobby! It’s life and death!” Despite how light of stature Zoey seems, the sheer force of her will threatens to buckle the desk. “I have to know! Did I talk to a legend and not know it? Should I put the dirt she stood on in a jar and sell it? Tell me!”

“Okay! Okay, I’ll tell you what I’ve heard.” Bobby gulps down the last of his whiskey and launches into an account full of gestures and theatrical voices. “Rumi Kang, also known as the Demon Hunter, on account of the amount of horrible criminals she’s put behind bars. Thieves, traitors, deserters, murderers, no-one escapes her! Once she’s got your trail, she doesn’t rest until she’s caught you. Some folk think that she’s not quite human, doesn’t sleep, eats her meat raw, sniffs out her targets like a bloodhound.” Bobby snorts at the idea, clearly unconvinced, before dropping back into character, “but others say she’s the daughter of a bounty hunter, trained from birth in the trade, and that’s why she’s so good. She used to have a partner, but he… Hm”

Bobby straightens and thinks for a moment. “Well, I’m not sure if he died or disappeared or what, but something sure happened, because she doesn’t have a partner anymore. And ever since she has worked alone. They say she once delivered a gang of five trainrobbers all by herself! And won in a standoff against some legendary gunman! …I forget his name. Anyway, I think she also infiltrated some kind of cult at some point and exposed the leader who turned out to be some important local politician or something. Very dramatic. They also say bad luck follows in her wake, but that’s probably superstitious talk, just like the meat thing.”

Uncharacteristically serious, Bobby puts his hand on Zoey’s shoulder, who’s startled out of an imagination full of stealth, shooting, dramatic acrobatics, and expert lassoing.

“I don’t know how much is true. There’s no doubt she’s good at what she does, but these kinds of tales... Often they forget the human element. When she came into my office, she didn’t feel like a ‘Demon Hunter’ or like a good story. She just seemed like another person getting by in this world.” He shrugs like he didn’t just push Zoey down a metaphorical hill and carry her back up again. “And honestly a little lonely. I swear I scared her when I thanked her for the whiskey.”

Reconciling the awkward, blushing woman performing one of the most inelegant retreats Zoey had ever seen with some legendary ‘Demon Hunter’ is giving her a headache. But, that first approach before Zoey had used her greatest weapon -an absolute deluge of words- matched better. Confident, calculating, calm.

Zoey can’t have been the first who’d try to talk her way out of trouble with Ms. Kang. Surely there are plenty of criminals with sharper tongues and minds out there. What had made this different? Time? Place? Zoey herself? Or was Ms. Kang only good at catching the kind of folk no better than animals? (Although Zoey would argue plenty of animals were better than humans and it was honestly an insulting comparison.)

Zoey had recognized the woman as a threat first and foremost, but then there was this… this thrum in the air, resonating in her chest, something alien and familiar at the same time, and so she let Ms. Kang approach. She hasn’t felt it since.

She leaves Bobby with the distracted promise of another visit in the near future. The oppressive heat is making her thoughts feel syrupy and sluggish, but a tinge of panic has permanently settled in her stomach.

What has she gotten herself into?

Stuck between some legendary bounty hunter and a lost rich girl who is very determined to stay lost. Also potentially insane, but Zoey suspects that might be foul play, since Mira had been nothing but subdued. Two weeks ago her biggest worry was… Well, honestly, her biggest worry is still keeping the ranch above water, but now her second biggest worry is getting caught in some game of cat and mouse where she’s just a piece of cheese (wait did that analogy work?).

She goes by the cobbler to pick up the old pair of boots she’d sent with the boys a few days ago, repaired and slightly altered to fit Mira better. It’s cheaper than new boots, even if it wasn’t ideal in the long term.

Jimmy’s leaning against the wagon, smoking, once she returns, smiles at her when she fits the boots in with the rest of the purchases. More hay, a sack of flour, stacks of cans, fresh fruit and vegetables, tea, coffee, sugar, the usual. “They were out of tobacco, so Scott’s sniffing around, seeing if he can buy some off of folks at the saloon.”

“I’ll go and drag him outta there.” Zoey grumbles good-naturedly. “You enjoy that cigarette, would you?”

Jimmy grins. “Yes, ma’am. Always tastes better when others are doing the hard work.”

“I should be the one getting paid to deal with you.” Zoey mumbles just loud enough for him to hear as she walks off. The saloon is a standalone two-story building surrounded by a small slab of land just on the edge of town. The ground before its main entrance is a churn of boot- and hoofprints, making it impossible to tell what’s mud and what’s horseshit. She wisely steps around and sticks to the few grassy patches still clinging to life by the fence. 

For a late afternoon the place is sporting more than its usual clientele. Perhaps the heat had stirred up people’s need for wetting their whistles and winding down. When she enters she goes from a gently roasting sun into a stale, hazy oven that smells like sawdust, beer, and smoke. It’s not hard to find Scott, he’s schmoozing next to Abigail at the poker table, and is definitely not interested in her tobacco.

Extracting him proves difficult once Abigail starts fluttering her lashes at both of them in an attempt to get them to join her for a drink (and lose their money to her at cards, Zoey knows she cheats). It’s only the threat of leaving him behind to walk back to the ranch that gets him going, along with Zoey launching into a detailed listing of Scott’s most embarrassing drunken escapades.

They’re only just out the door when Ms. Kang trots up on that gorgeous horse of hers, both covered in a fine sheen of sweat. Zoey’s got half a mind to hide behind Scott and hurry their way over, her nerves surprisingly unhappy with this development. But, alas, she is spotted.

“Ms. Jones!” Ms. Kang smiles and nods politely, “How do you do?” 

Zoey watches her dismount, taking a moment to tend to her horse before making her way over. Maybe Ms. Kang would let her pet him? “Why don’t you go on ahead,” she tells Scott quietly, “I’ll meet you at the southern crossing out of town.”

“Are you sure?” He looks skeptically between her and the bounty hunter, obviously sensing trouble.

“I’ll be fine, worst case I’ll scream and have reinforcements drunk and foolish enough to take on a woman like that.” Zoey nods at the tavern. Scott seems loath to leave her alone, but also knows how pissy she gets when he doesn’t listen to her, so slowly walks away. He puffs up when passing Ms. Kang, giving her a stoic nod and his patented ‘don’t mess with me’ glare which works wonders on cows. Not so much people.

“Ms. Kang, how nice to see you again.” Zoey deploys her sunniest smile. In a way, to be fair, it was true. “We’re fine, it’s been a quiet few days.” Definitely nothing of note happened down at the ranch. Nothing suspicious here, no ma’am!

“I’m glad to hear.” Ms. Kang looked like she meant it. There’s a moment of hesitation before her eyes find Zoey’s and her brow furrows. “Since you’re in town, have you by chance inquired with the Sheriff about my legitimacy?”

Reluctantly, Zoey nods. “Sure have! Seems like you’re not a criminal or bandit or some other kind of bad after all.”

“Depends on who you ask, really.” There’s a wryness to Rumi’s crooked smile, but Zoey’s suddenly too busy trying to not look at her mouth to think much of it. “The way some of my bounties talk, you’d think I’m the one doing wrong.”

Zoey winces sympathetically. The kind of people Ms. Kang would be exposed to constantly would make it hard to retain any sort of belief in goodness and decency, she imagines. “You must get a lot of horrible talk your way.”

“It’s useless too, I’m not the one to convince they’ve done no wrong.” She shrugs, it seems like it genuinely doesn’t bother her.

“Do you ever get-” She thinks twice of asking Ms. Kang about ‘admirers’, “recognized?”

“Recognized?” There’s a suspicious tilt to Ms. Kand’s head. “How do you mean?”

“Well…” Oops, sorry Bobby, but Zoey had dug herself the beginnings of a grave and it required someone’s body. “When I asked the sheriff about you, I heard some things.”

“I see.” Something complicated happens on Ms. Kang’s face. Nothing Zoey can make any sense of, but it certainly tells her she isn’t feeling only one way about it.

“And I figured that once someone knows about you, well, there ain’t many bounty hunters going around looking like you I imagine.” Zoey nervously bounces on her feet, hands clutching behind her back to prevent them from making too-big too-many gestures.

“It happens.” At Ms. Kang’s stiff tone and lack of elaboration, Zoey nods fervently. Topic unwelcome. Noted.

“Right, right. Stupid question. Anyway, I’ve got to be going home. I’m sure you’ve got,” her hands flutter uselessly, “things. To do.” 

Ms. Kang just nods silently. Sheesh, and here Zoey thought they were making progress. Two steps back, she guesses. Speaking of steps back, she starts slowly walking away, eager to get out of what had become an increasingly awkward encounter. “Alright then, I will see you… later?”

“I will be in town for a little longer.” Ms. Kang confirms.

“Great! Don’t be a stranger!” Really, Zoey? She hurries away, hiding a wince when she steps into unidentifiable muck, and this time she’s the one not looking back for fear of seeing a judgemental gaze follow her. Zoey had managed so well at the start but at the mention of Ms. Kang’s reputation it’s like she’d just clamped shut. One would think a strong reputation, especially one of success, would be welcome for a bounty hunter. What in the heck was going on here?

Maybe it is better not to know, but… she wants to.

It’s not until much later that night that she realizes Ms. Kang hadn’t even asked her any of her questions.

Chapter Text

The roads are starting to feel familiar to Rumi. Familiar means she is lingering too long, it means she’s going around in circles chasing ghosts. Or it means she’s getting invested, building connections she shouldn’t, roots taking hold without her consent. 

It never ends well when she stays. 

Especially when they are here, too. She hasn’t run into them, yet, but it is only a matter of time. She’s not ready. She probably never will be. 

When she crests the hill the view that greets her fills her with a strange itch, a heaviness. The ranch, golden fields, a cluster of five- no, six people under a tree taking shelter from the afternoon heat. She sees them take notice, one of them walking quickly to the house, no doubt to inform Ms. Jones of her arrival.

Before she takes a left onto Ms. Jones’ land, she sees the woman emerge from her front door and wait at the porch.

Sussie is gently whistled over, before they would take note of an oddly docile bird at her side. “Keep an eye on the back of the house, let me know if anyone leaves.” They take off in an affirmed flutter, using the trees as cover before taking to the sky in earnest.

This time there is no shotgun in hand, and Ms. Jones emits an energy that almost seems… excited? Nervous?

Rumi’s approach is a slow amble, relaxed to an outside observer, calculated and tense in reality. No shotgun comes out of hiding once she’s past the gate, either. 

Progress? 

Geum halts a few paces from the front porch at her command, both watching Ms. Jones warily. “So. Have you decided whether you will shoot me or answer my questions?” 

“Depends. Do you like coffee, Ms. Kang?” It is asked like Rumi’s fate depends on it, uncharacteristically serious.

Is this going to be another runaround? Rumi might not be the best at these things but she is prepared now. She won’t let Ms. Jones deter her from getting answers, and with how much trouble Ms. Jones has been, there has to be something to find. People who have no information, often have no problem relaying that fact. It gets them away from scrutiny and trouble, things no-one tends to want. She indulges Ms. Jones. For now. “I, uh, sure, but what does that have to do with…”

Ms. Jones smiles and walks back through her front door, calling, “wait there!”

Geum looks about as skeptical about the situation as she feels, but she just shrugs and waits. Worst case the shotgun would make a reappearance, and if it did, she’s certain she can manage. Wouldn’t be the first time, isn’t like to be the last.

It’s only a few moments later that Ms. Jones returns with a pot and two mugs in hand. Using the porch railing as a table, she divides the steaming black liquid equally across both. Once she’s done she looks up at Rumi and frowns.

“What are you still doing there, want coffee or not?”

Rumi dismounts with a grunt, patting Geum’s flank reassuringly as he whinnies softly at her. The few steps leading up to the porch feel tense, like she’s breaking some unspoken rule, like she’s walking into a trap but too polite to avoid it. Every creak of wood beneath her boots feels fraught, but she persists, and finds herself beside Ms. Jones, leaning against the railing like this is a normal thing to be doing.

Before Ms. Jones sips her own mug, Rumi shakes her head, then gestures, “switch.”

Ms. Jones’ grin is part offended, part amused. “Paranoid, much? I’m not going to poison you right on my own porch. I doubt that would make me look any kind of innocent. Plus burying a body is a lot of work. I’ve heard.”

At Rumi’s steady, unflinching look, she sighs, and hands over her mug. With a theatrical air, she picks up the second one, sips it delicately, and winks. Her hair is in braided buns this time, a few fringes stubbornly escaping and shifting in the wind.

“Never know.” Rumi shrugs, then greedily inhales the rich aroma. Coffee was one of the vices she indulges in without reservation, and this one smells like it is brewed well.

A silence builds between them, only broken by the breeze and distant birdsong, and the occasional quiet sip. It’s surprisingly comfortable, and Rumi cherishes that she can have this, sharing a drink with a near-stranger without any transaction, just a moment of existing in proximity. She wonders what makes today different than yesterday, why she accepted this offer and not the other.

It’s a nice place, the ranch. Boots by the door, caked in old mud. Paint chipping off at the corners. Windchimes somewhere in the back. The smell of cows and corn on the breeze.

“I’m sure you’ve got good reason not to trust quickly.” Ms. Jones puts her mug between them and her elbow on the railing, tilts her head slightly up to watch where the overhang meets the wall. It’s thoughtful, vulnerable, and confusing. “I can’t imagine doing what you do. A life on the road, alone, chasing people who don’t want themselves found. Risking your life.”

“It suits me. I like the solitude.” Without meaning to she’s falling into Ms. Jones’ orbit, happy to take a moment to just… talk with someone. “Besides, I’m not alone, I’ve got Geum.”

Sussie goes unmentioned. They’re her secret weapon. But she lists them in thought. The horse in question ignores them entirely, much too absorbed in mouthing at a small patch of grass by the fence.

Ms. Jones giggles, and Rumi finds herself inadvertently smiling. “Oh yeah, he looks like he’s got a lot of stories to tell. A real conversationalist.”

“Just don’t get him drunk, he won’t shut up.”

Ms. Jones shifts to look at her, dimples out in full force, “just like how coffee gets you talking?”

A flush creeps up Rumi’s ears, and she looks away. “I… appreciate the gift.”

They’re quiet again, but Rumi can feel Ms. Jones studying her, and she just can’t quite figure out what conclusions she’s coming to. Is she intimidated? Is she figuring out whether to trust her? Is she planning how to kill her? Can she see what Rumi’s keeping so carefully contained right under her skin? But she says nothing, and her face remains unreadable, so Rumi lets Ms. Jones look without protest or acknowledgement.

Eventually, the itch to do her job wins over the comfort of the moment, and she sets her mug down. “May I ask my questions?”

Ms. Jones sighs, but nods. “Ask away.”

“Have you seen the woman I’m looking for?”

“Describe her.”

Rumi frowns. They both know Rumi had already told her, and this bounty was the talk of the town. Is Ms. Jones playing some sort of game with her? Regardless, she goes through the list. “Long, pink hair, tall, from a rich family and likely has some jewelry to pawn, went missing a few weeks ago and was moving this direction recently. One of the farms further north saw her a few days ago but she didn’t stick around. Her family’s warned that she’s unstable, prone to violent outbursts, has trouble knowing what’s real, so if she’s lost she’s likely doing worse and could hurt someone, or if she’s been kidnapped she’s vulnerable, probably doesn’t understand what’s happening.”

Something dark moves across Ms. Jones’ face. “Unstable.”

Rumi shrugs. “That’s what I was told.”

“Do you think it’s true?” It doesn’t sound like Ms. Jones is asking for an objective truth, it feels like she’s asking Rumi for an opinion. But Rumi doesn’t have opinions on bounties. Opinions get you involved too far, they get you in the crosshairs, they get people hurt. It’s the law’s job to judge, not hers.

Words she’d lived by for years. Words carved into her until they became impermeable truth. ‘Do not make your mother’s mistakes.’ Celine would say. ‘People will take advantage of you if you let them. Do not show any weakness. If you have an advantage, do not let go of it. No-one else is on your side.’

Words she’d doubted, until him. He’d taught her to see the world differently. Less solid and clear, more malleable, more nuanced. That there’s good everywhere, in everyone, despite the mess.

And then he’d proven Celine right.

Rumi’s face remains carefully neutral. “Does it matter? If she is unstable, finding her is important for everyone’s safety. If she isn’t… Well, I’ll have to find her first to know.” It’s the most diplomatic way she can put ‘it’s none of our business, the job doesn’t change’.

A skeptical noise comes from Ms. Jones, who’s now looking at the dregs in her mostly empty mug like it just told her fortune and it wasn’t good news.

She crosses her arms and leans her hip against the railing, letting herself straighten into her full height. A move meant to emphasize her point, and it doesn’t hurt that she knows she cuts an intimidating figure this way. “Ms. Jones. I am not the only one looking for her. There are folks out there that do this job for sport, for money, for the thrill. I’d not trust them with someone like Ms. Song. It’s only a matter of time before they come here.” 

Eyes grow sharp and they narrow at the guns at her hip. “And why are you a bounty hunter, then?”

Why indeed. Guilt. Grief. Stubbornness. Rebellion. Faith. Because she wants to understand, because she’s searching and running and proving something. Because she is an instrument of violence and this is the only way she knows that she can be used for good. Because maybe she’ll understand how she fits into the picture eventually this way. Because she can’t fix the past if she never faces it. Because she doesn’t know what else to do.

Because she is a monster and does not deserve to wear a human life like it’d ever suit her.

Because she’s good at it.

“I’m just doing my job, ma’am.” She states with practiced, pleasant blandness.

Ms. Jones, for some reason, snorts as if Rumi just said something unexpectedly funny. It’s clear she hadn’t planned on that reaction, seeing as her hands immediately fly to her mouth, eyes wide but unable to hide some trace of mirth. “Uh, sorry! Sorry, I just- That’s very, uh, good of you.”

It leaves her with questions, but Rumi’s patience is running out. “Right. So, have you seen anyone fitting the description?”

A deep breath, a small nod as if she’d made up her mind about something, and Ms. Jones’ face settles into something weighty. “Yeah, I have. I found her sleeping in my barn.”

A beat.

“When?” Rumi nearly grasps Ms. Jones by the arm to shake the information out of her. “Is she still here?”

Ms. Jones’ eyes widen at her intensity. “Uh It was… three…no four nights ago. I was getting some hay for the horses, you know, I store it up there so it stays high and dry, like I’ve been taught by my pa, like everyone else does. Uh you probably don’t care. But when I climbed the ladder there was a woman up there, and startled me something fierce! I nearly fell off the ladder!”

“What did she do?” Rumi asked insistently.

“She just… stared at me. I think I scared her just as much as she did me. But then I picked up a shovel to, I don’t know, defend myself, and asked her who the heck she was and what she was doing in my barn, then she went straight for me!” Ms. Jones’ gestures have grown animated, eyes seeing only memory, and Rumi nearly contemplates retreating a step for her own safety.

“She attacked you?”

Ms. Jones deflates a little, fingers tangling nervously. “Well, no, not really. I think she was just trying to escape, so I, uh, I let her.”

“And?”

Ms. Jones stills, shrugs. “That’s it. Haven’t seen her since, but I sure check the barn every morning now.”

There is something about the story that felt… incomplete. Rumi has a nose for these things. And an eye. And an ear. She lets her senses expand a little, opens the door of the cage just a fraction, let’s it buzz just underneath her skin. 

Ms. Jones’ heartbeat is elevated, eyes looking at her too steadily, like she’s forcing them not to move, and there is the sour-salt smell of… nerves. Fear. 

Showing none of it on her face, Rumi gestures at the barn. “Will you show me where she was?”

“Okay,” Ms. Jones walks past her a little too quickly, too eager, “do you think she left something behind?”

“Never know.”

As they walk towards the barn, Rumi scans the house. One window, facing the side, is closed, curtained. All others are clear, open. Sussie has not informed her of any other signs of life.

“Do you live here alone?” It’s a risky question, with predatory intent often read into it no matter what Rumi means. But with the ranch being the way it is, no-one else standing beside Ms. Jones to defend it…

“Oh… No, my pa’s just away on an errand. He’ll be back soon.” She waves the question away. “Plus we’ve got our boys, but they’re here during the day only.” 

Something about that was wrong. “It’s a big place to handle just the two of you.”

“That’s why we got our boys!” Except usually far more people worked plots this large. “Most of them have worked for us for years, some are just here until harvest.”

“Thought I saw five last time, but six today. Got a new-one mid-season?”

“Oh?” Ms. Jones’ voice catches a little, opens the barn door with an eager flourish, “no! They were here last time too, probably just behind the house where you couldn’t see!” 

Sussie hadn’t seen anyone else during their scouting.

Ms. Jones is the picture of hospitality, lets her rummage around the barn freely while telling her small anecdotes about her life, about the ranch. Rumi asks her to repeat the event, leave out no detail, show the exact places for each moment, and she does, and it’s the same every time. Ms. Jones found Ms. Song, Ms. Song ran. 

She finds little out of place. The barn is full of things that belong here, supplies, tools, the shovel Ms. Jones wields in demonstration. And then, she finds it. A long, pink hair, mixed in with some loose hay on the floor. She squats, picks it up. It almost buzzes in her fingers, like there’s some residual energy from the owner. It’s the first physical bit of evidence she’d found, and she doesn’t suppress a triumphant grin.

“Huh.” Ms. Jones squints at the hair being held up to the light, swallows. “How did you even see that?”

“I’m good at what I do.”

Ms. Jones smiles wanly, and Rumi knows that whatever the sheriff had told her is most likely being re-examined. Perhaps, by evening, a new rumor about her uncanny eye for detail will be do the rounds. She tries not to let it bother her. 

Rumi goes over it when they walk back to the house. Ms. Jones’ story about finding Ms. Song in the barn is true, but… It’s confusing. She can tell there’s a lie somewhere, and it buzzes around inside her head like a mosquito, small but insistent.

It’s only because of her nature that she can even tell. She almost wishes she couldn’t, because then this could just be a small moment of connection, a break from the routine until she returns to it, and nothing more.

But there’s the one closed window. And why is there another set of boots by the door? Who is the sixth farmhand? Ms. Jones is hiding something, and Rumi can’t afford to let it go.

“I hate to ask this of you, but,” she grimaces, knowing she’s about to test Ms. Jones’ goodwill, “I’d like to search the house.”

Mid-regale of a cow-related accident, Ms. Jones stills. Fear, there for a moment, quickly hidden, but clear as day. Rumi nearly winces at the spike of it assaulting her senses. “The house?”

Hoping to ease her into it, Rumi adds, “it’s just that, sometimes people come back. I’ve found folks hiding in houses with the owners none-the-wiser. It’s… I’d like to make sure you’re safe.”

“I know what’s going on in my own house. I’d know if someone was there.” Ms. Jones protests, good humor disappearing quickly. It’s like a sudden sunset, a book being closed before you’ve finished the chapter, an almost violent end to warmth and welcome.

Breath by breath, the walls that had been dropping at the easy camaraderie between her and Ms. Jones are built back up. She’s not here to make friends, she’s here to do her duty, and she can’t let sentimentality get in the way. “I mean no offense, but those other families thought the same.”

The furtive, worried glances Ms. Jones keeps throwing at the house merely confirm her suspicions. Her hand subconsciously moves to the gun at her hip, resting on the grip. Ms. Jones notices, and immediately squares up. “I think you should leave.”

Rumi slowly starts backing up towards the house. “I can’t do that.” She says, then sighs. “You’re lying to me about something.”

Ms. Jones chases her, circling to put herself between Rumi and the porch. Her hands never land on Rumi, but they halt her all the same. “I’m not lying! I’ve answered your questions, I showed you the barn, there’s nothing left for you here.”

Rumi stands her ground. “If you’ve nothing to hide, why not let me check?”

Anger flushes Ms. Jones’s cheeks as she narrows her eyes. “Oh, no. None of that. I don’t owe you anything. You’re a stranger trying to get into my house, and I have every right to refuse you. Now, please leave.”

Rumi grimaces, but doesn’t relent. She points at the front door. “Whose boots are that?”

“My… my pa’s.” Truth.

“You said he was out on an errand.”

“He is. He’s wearing his other boots. What does it matter?” Lie.

“So there’s no-one else in the house using those boots?”

“No, no-one!” Lie.

Too many lies. Everything is leading toward the same conclusion. Rumi, determined set to her mouth, pushes past Ms. Jones and stomps up the porch right through the unlocked front door.

“Hey, stop!”

She takes the shotgun from where it’s leaning just inside the door, more to keep it from being used on her than to use it herself. A living room, sparse but homely, a few doors, all closed, an open archway to another room, and a staircase. The darkened window had been on the second floor.

“You can’t take that!” Ms. Jones tries to take the gun from her but she moves like lightning, twirling around the woman with practiced ease and wrestling her arm into a firm but painless hold.

“Who are you hiding?” Calmly, almost politely, the question is asked.

“Let me go!” That cage inside of her is opened just a little more in the face of Ms. Jones’s surprisingly strong struggle. Her toes are being firmly stomped on, but Rumi doesn’t even flinch. Her limbs tingle, she can feel herself shift, just a little, just enough to make it easy to push Ms. Jones up the stairs with her. 

“If you tell me who you’re hiding, I will.”

There are several doors at the landing, most partially ajar. Two are closed, and with some mental calculation, she knows which has the darkened window. She moves them both towards it.

For a moment, Ms. Jones almost seems confused, stumbling not in the kind of way that happens when resisting movement, but the kind of way when the direction of the movement is unexpected. When their target is clear, the angry struggle becomes a quiet, still seething. 

“Don’t you dare.” Ms. Jones’s tone is sharp as flint, and just as ready to spark a fire. “This is none of your business.”

It’s too suspicious. Rumi doesn’t want to, but she has to. It’s what she signed up for, it’s who she is. Not everyone understands she’s there to help. To protect. So she continues towards the closed door, releasing Ms. Jones’ wrist and gently pushing her to the side.

The door creaks open, softly, carefully, and Ms. Jones’ attempt to intercept Rumi is stopped by a bruising grip on her shoulder. Ms. Jones keeps pushing into her grip regardless, eyes ablaze as she hisses, “get away from the door!”

Darkness and dust. The curtains are closed, the only light a slash of pale coming from the door, partially obscured by their struggling shadows. The musty air is thick with the sweet-salt mix of sweat and sick. A chair rests next to the bed, nightstand cluttered with bottles and bowls and dirty cloths and half-eaten meals. A lump swaddled in blankets breathes in gasps and coughs as it rises shakily. “...Zoey? Who’s… Who… I heard-” A spluttering cough.

The voice is weak, raspy. And male.

“Don’t worry about it, pa, she just… got lost.” The words are delivered with such a shift in tone so as to send Rumi reeling. They’re soft, gentle, not even a single ember of her fury left. Rumi’s grip on Ms. Jones weakens and the woman slips underneath her arm into the room, immediately at his bedside to help him lie back down. “You haven’t finished your lunch again, was it too dry?”

“No… no. Too tired.” He mumbles, then rattles out a cough that makes his body curl into itself. “I’ll finish… later. How are the boys?”

“They’re fine. Timmy dropped a hammer on his foot so I gave him milking duty.” Ms. Jones smiles like she hadn’t been in a fight just moments ago.

A wet, wheezing chuckle. “It’s a miracle that boy can still walk after everything.”

Still frozen in the doorway, Rumi lets out a breath as she realizes just how badly she’d miscalculated the situation. The look Ms. Jones throws her way is so scathing she immediately retreats, softly closing the door and walking downstairs in a daze. Everything is clicking into place. The struggling ranch, the comments from the people in town, Ms. Jones’ protectiveness. Her father was sick, and if people knew Ms. Jones was handling everything alone, they might help… or they might take advantage.

She fucked up.

She sets the shotgun back where she found it leaning against the wall and casts one more look around the living space, strangely somber. The smell of coffee still lingers, sunlight casts warm squares across the simple furniture. It’s a good home. 

Something about it bothers her, but she ignores it. Her intuition had led her astray today once already. She leaves before her welcome expires even further than it already had.

Rumi’s outside tending to Geum, shoulders tense and eyes distant, when Ms. Jones returns downstairs. The two women share a silent look before Rumi clenches her jaw and looks down. “You have every right to chase me off, I almost left already but… I just wanted to assure you I won’t tell anyone. And to apologize, I shouldn’t have- It was none of my business.”

“Go away.” There’s no shotgun this time, but the chill Rumi feels at those words is far worse. She nods, doesn’t dare to even look at Ms. Jones, and immediately does as she’s told. 

There’s no heat at her back this time, nor the bite of an icy glare. Just… nothing. Barely an ending, just the absence of something that could have been.

No song leaves her lips on the way back to town. Even Geum seems to sense her change in mood. The clop over his hooves is even as she sways to the rhythm he chose for her. She barely even registers the landscape passing by, or Sussie circling high overhead. Just memories on repeat. Coffee on the porch, forcing Ms. Jones’ arm behind her back, opening the door into something private and fragile. 

That hateful look. 

A posse of pink-haired women could be riding by and she wouldn’t notice a thing.

Why did Rumi think this would be any different? She’s not built for quiet moments on the porch, she’s not built to share or to love. She’s built for hurricanes and horse chases, a distant protector of those who deserved it. She’s built for passing through towns and hunting murderers. She’s built to fight demons, all except her own.

Geum and Sussie are already an indulgence. How dare she ask for more? She is glad the reminder had been quick, decisive, before she’d gotten invested, before that door in her mind had been fully unlocked.

What would she have done, anyway? Stayed?

The evening is a blur of habits. Food is eaten without taste, shallow greetings are exchanged, Geum is tended to, her guns cleaned, her clothes neatly folded. It’s only when she lies in the bed, failing to find comfort, that she remembers the basement door. It had been closed when she had entered the house. When she had descended the stairs and returned the shotgun, it had been opened to a crack.

Either the door was loose, shifted by a draft, or… Sussie hadn’t alerted her about anyone leaving the house. Someone else had been in there.

Chapter Text

The moment it was clear that it was the bounty hunter on the horizon, Mira had quickly made her way from lounging near Zoey’s boys after helping them corral the cows, cap low and clothes baggy, into the house to warn Zoey and hide in the usual spot. Behind the painting with dust and spiders and grime and the fervent hope to never see her family again.

Zoey hadn’t told her exactly what she’d planned, but she somehow hadn’t shown any reason for Mira not to trust her. Yet. And she really had been looking closely.

It had taken long. Mira could hear snatches of the conversation, a back and forth with many long silences, movement inside and outside of the house. Without Zoey to pull her out, indicating safety, she stayed put, wiping the remnants of sweat from her brow.

But then there had been heavy footfalls, a scuffle, yelling. Zoey was protesting loudly, and Mira was stuck between staying put to keep her safe, and jumping in to keep her safe. But what could she do? She had no weapon, never did anything more violent to another person than a sharp remark or spilled drink. She’d hunted for a while, until it was deemed ‘unladylike’ and she’d been forced into ‘more appropriate’ pastimes. The kind that would win her a suitor. The kind that would preserve the Song social standing. The kind that would help her once she had children. Useless.

But two against one would be a marked improvement. And if Mira was honest with herself, the last thing she wanted was to make Zoey’s life even harder. Worse, get her genuinely hurt, So, gritting her teeth, Mira had climbed out of her hiding spot and crept up the stairs. At that point, the scuffle was already moving away from the basement door, so she edged it open just enough to hear what was going on. Just enough to see if her help was needed. Just enough to finally understand what had been behind that second closed door upstairs this whole time.

She’d heard the coughing, late at night, sometimes during the day when the house was quiet. Mira had known it wasn’t Zoey. She never coughed during the day, and the voice was too heavy, too low.

She’d had a suspicion, but to have it confirmed made her blood run cold. No wonder Zoey was struggling. She was working herself ragged, and yet retained such cheer and gratitude. Taking Mira in on top of everything had been a significant risk. Did she ever really take care of herself?

At the first sound of a heavy boot hitting the stairs, Mira’s heart had shot into overdrive, and she’d rushed as quietly as she could down the creaky basement stairs back into hiding. It hadn’t been necessary, this was a retreat.

Perhaps it was unworthy of her to be grateful that the bounty hunter had miscalculated, even if her conclusion had ultimately been correct. It was hard not to be relieved. She had emerged into the living room, Zoey never having retrieved her, only to find the woman slumped against the front door, head on her knees, breaths too-fast and eyes glistening. She was barely responsive, but Mira had managed to coax her into the kitchen.

It takes two attempts to brew tea, but Mira had been observing Zoey do it for days, so she figured she wouldn’t be at risk of burning the house down. The tools are different from what she knew, but the concept remains the same. She’d be proud of this small victory, the simple act of doing a chore herself, no servants and no help, if she hadn’t felt like she was intruding into something private and fragile and entirely out of her wheelhouse.

Curled over a steaming mug, Zoey looks a million miles away. She’s not hurt, Mira had made sure to check. Physically, that is.

Mira sinks into a chair beside her, cradling her own drink carefully. She contemplates her fingers for a moment, the one golden ring she hadn’t sold yet, and takes a moment to silently lament about her lost glasses. It’s frustrating not to be able to see Zoey in detail, not to be able to read those small but important facial expressions, properly learn how she ticks.

It might be overstepping a boundary, but… “How long has he been sick?” 

No reaction.

“Zoey,” Mira carefully touches her wrist where it lies on the table. The pulse thrums like a hummingbird’s. “Are you here with me?”

“Hm?” Zoey’s eyes re-focus on the present, blinking at Mira’s hand. “What?”

Carefully, she changes tactics. “How are you doing?”

A shrug, then a sigh. Not a single word. Mira hadn’t known Zoey for very long, but long enough to understand that a Zoey who has nothing to say was not a Zoey that was doing well.

“I’m sorry.” Slips out before she can think better of it.

A faintly puzzled frown creases Zoey’s brow, but her eyes remain locked to their hands. “What for?” 

“You’re already dealing with a lot. And here I am, making things even harder. If it wasn’t for me-” No. It’s not about her right now. She shakes off the self-doubt creeping in, the old hurts clawing at her throat. This is about Zoey, about how she’s doing. “I’m sorry about your father. It must be so difficult for you to take care of him and the ranch. I’m far from an expert, but… I can see the toll.”

Zoey’s already shaking her head halfway through Mira’s sympathizing, as if she’s rejecting it. “I have to. He’ll get better and I have to make sure he’s got something to return to. I chose him, I chose this. It’s going to be mine someday, and I will have to be able to handle it myself anyway. He’s still helping, giving me advice. He’s not- He’s not a burden.”

There are layers there. History, old hurts, potential regret. It feels like a mantra, a defense, like Zoey tells this to herself every night, every time she doubts. But something about it doesn’t add up, doesn’t sit right with Mira. Time to return to her original question. “How long has he been sick?”

“I’m not…” Zoey seems to shrink, shoulders creeping defensively upwards. “Maybe, two months?” 

Two months didn’t seem like enough time for the ranch to go to essentially half capacity. Some of the fields look like nothing had even been planted this year. Mira is not an expert when it comes to working fields, but she knows land usage, she knows the numbers and the theory and the many ways to squeeze every bit of profit out of a place. Her father would take one look at this place, curl his lip just so, telling her a storm would rage that evening at dinner, and promptly threaten to evict the current owners. Unless they fixed it within the year. Often he’d force them toward loansharks, many of which he employed himself, build their debt, line his pockets. 

He always wins. Everyone else always loses. That is the Song way. “How were things before he got sick?” 

There’s a very clear moment where Mira realizes she overstepped, realizes she’d started analyzing and forgot to empathize. Zoey’s eyes narrow and she pushes away from the kitchen table, chair scraping the flooring with an unpleasant screech. Her posture is defensive, and she’s even further away from looking at Mira than before. “What’s it to you?”

“Hey,” Mira leans back a little, trying to give Zoey space. “I’m not here to accuse you or judge you.” Not like that idiot of a bounty hunter who’d just barged in with her (admittedly correct) assumptions. “I figured something was going on, but I didn’t want to pry. Now I just want to make sure you’re doing alright.”

“I’m fine.” Is the curt reply. Zoey’s not meeting her eyes, glaring instead at her feet. It’s not a lie, it’s a refusal. A warning. A line in the sand.

Mira scoffs, unheeding of the line drawn, because she isn’t about to let Zoey just pretend. Why, for Mira’s sake? So she can grind herself into dust under the guise of pride? Please. “You’re not.”

Zoey’s fists clench, clearly frustrated, but the trembling isn’t only anger. There are nerves, too. Mira is clearly hitting somewhere tender, already bruised. “It’s none of your business.”

Mira grits her teeth and straightens her spine. She’s committed now. “I am your guest, and you’re capable of kicking me out at any point you want, but while I’m here, you can’t expect me to just… Leave you to face this and not care. Wasn’t it you who gave a whole speech about paying kindness forward and caring about thy neighbour? Practice what you preach, Ms. Jones.” 

The air softens, and the look Zoey gives her settles warmly around her heart and squeezes gently. She looks at Mira like she means something, like she’s grateful for her presence, like she’s done something good. Her chuckle is weak, but there nonetheless. “You’ve got me there.”

A nod, and Mira removes some of the mask she’d learned to wear at all times, and lets her sincerity shine through, in hopes of reducing the blunt impact of what she’s about to say. “I’ve only just started learning your side of things, but I can tell things haven’t been going well. For a while. You’re pretending not to be worried, you’re pretending you’re not tight on money, and you’re definitely pretending that your father’s condition isn’t an issue. You can’t go on like this forever. You know this, and your boys as well. They haven’t said anything but I can tell. It does no-one any favors to keep going like it isn’t going to get worse.”

Zoey’s blush is that of angry embarrassment, and her jaw undoubtedly works to contain several sharp replies. Mira regards her calmly, free of judgement, prepared for protests, insults, whatever Zoey needed to fling at her to defend and process. Only them and the harsh truth laid bare on the kitchen table. The house seems to still in anticipation. 

Zoey stands abruptly, mouth tense, walks nearly as if to leave the kitchen, then turns around and returns to the table. Goes back and forth a few times, opening her mouth as if to say something, then closing it with a grumble. She looks at the worn wood, smooths her hand over it, and sighs, deflating. She swallows a few times. “Well. That hurt.”

Mira nods wordlessly. The truth often did. Better now, before it is too late. But would Zoey see it that way? Mira’s braced for this getting her kicked out, for Zoey to buckle under the shame of failure and hide herself in the work until they go destitute, for Zoey to give up and let it all happen to her. But only a small part of Mira believes this. She knows people. She’s got a knack for figuring them out, always had, honed to a knife’s edge by time and necessity. Rarely do they surprise her. Zoey is quick to spiral and lose herself to hypotheticals, but equally as quick to figure a way out, clever and unconventional. Prepared in a way someone who imagines the worst at any time is. This one’s strong, determined, could probably move mountains if she aimed to, she just needs to see the picture for what it really is, and accept it.

Zoey’s eyes narrow thoughtfully, shoulders draw down, feet shuffle a little wider, and she nods once to herself. A decision had been made. A judgement cast. “So, where does that put you?”

Mira grins. Atta girl. “You’re going to tell me about the nature of your woes, and then we’ll create an overview of your finances, look at your contracts, and figure out what’s necessary to keep this place alive. I warn you, this will involve tough choices, you might have to sell parts of your property and you might have to let some of your boys g-”

“Absolutely not. They are family, they are staying, I don’t care what it takes.” 

Zoey looks ready to physically fight Mira on the point, but she deflates when all Mira gives her is a sigh. “Fine, we’ll work with that, but it will require sacrifices.”

Now here comes more difficult truth, this time about herself. Perfectly even, face impassive, she confesses. “I’ve not done this kind of work before. Not directly. My family manages and leases land, and I’ve seen them do these sorts of things many times. My education covered some concepts, but I’ll need your help in the places where I have no experience.”

Partway through her explanation, Zoey found her way back into the chair next to Mira, nearly knocking their knees together, listening attentively. The big brown eyes that feel like they’re seeing straight through all her defenses are making Mira’s palms sweat for some reason, but she bravely continues. ”I understand if you are hesitant to trust me with the details of your situation, I could recommend someone else. Professionals. People uninvolved with my family, people who you can trust. But if you-”

Zoey nudges her foot against Mira’s, eyes crinkling as she shakes her head. “I trust you. I want you.”

It’s probably for the best that Zoey has no idea what those words stir within Mira, and it’s only a lifetime of discipline that keeps her from reacting in any significant way. She just hopes Zoey will attribute the redness around her ears to her confession. “I’m also going to help you take care of your father.”

Zoey blanches. “I can’t ask that of you.”

“Then don’t,” Mira’s lips lift slightly, her kindness firm and certain, she lifts her chin, commanding, daring, “but don’t stop me either.”

Tears begin flowing down Zoey’s cheeks as she nods. Someone crying in front of her in public is not a common experience for Mira. All such things were supposed to be done in private, if at all. Hide your faults and your fears, and most of all your true feelings. But this, even though it hadn’t been Mira’s intention, feels weirdly refreshing. Softly smiling, and quickly blinking sympathetic tears away, Mira fully takes Zoey’s hand. Perhaps she’s being sentimental and soft, both things she had been taught were signs of weaknesses. But here, in this moment, they feel like strength, and she takes one more step into vulnerable truth. “We’re not quite strangers anymore, and neither perhaps friends, but I’d like to think that’s where we’re going. And I’ve not had much practice in friendship, but I do know they are supposed to be there for each other in tough times. You’ve been there for me at great cost to yourself, let me return a little of that favor. Please?” 

Zoey laughs wetly. “Do you even know anything about taking care of a sick person?”

“No,” Mira admits casually, “so teach me.”

“You could get sick as well!” 

Wide dark eyes with tear-stained lashes looking up at her like she’s deserving of protection should become a punishable offense. It takes every ounce of strength for Mira not to back down, and even then she gives more leeway than intended. “Maybe. But you take that chance every day, and I’m already sharing the house. I figure it doesn’t make much of a difference either way.”

Zoey’s expression grows so soft, so fond, Mira has to look away. No-one has ever looked at her like that. No-one has ever made her feel so welcome, almost wanted. She’s filled with more warmth than when she’d sit in front of their largest hearth in the Song family mansion. There’s one within her now, her own hearthfire. And, increasingly, it burns for this ranch, these people, and especially the woman across from her.

It’s terrifying, but she finds herself wanting to stoke the flames.

Voice still thick with tears, Zoey shakes her head, “you know, you’re nothing like what I imagined someone like you would be like.”

Mira stills in anticipation. “Someone like me?”

“Rich people. You know,” Zoey looks like she’s desperately trying not to offend Mira and regretting everything, “nobility. Are you nobility? You’re obviously important in some way. Who owns land anyway?”

Mira smiles wryly. “My family would love to be nobility, but they’re just businessmen, rich landowners that like to play pretend.”

Perhaps it’s Zoey’s habit of sincere openness, perhaps something akin to trust has built up in the past few days between them. Either way, Mira finds herself compelled to share something personal. “I’ve never been like them.”

The curious tilt to Zoey’s head feels like an invitation to elaborate. She takes the leap. “That whole idea that we’re ‘better’ in some way? It’s all performative bullshit, some collective agreed-upon hallucination where everyone pretends that they’re better than the ‘common man’, more ‘civilized’. But really they’re worse, they hide all kinds of depravity underneath their fancy perfumes and practiced smiles. Trust me, the only thing that sets them apart from criminals is that they’ve got the law in their pocket, so no-one blinks an eye when they stomp all over everyone else.”

“Is that why you left?” No judgement, only curiosity. 

Mira nods, swallows past years of supression. “I never fit in, never played along. I wasn’t playing the part of perfect heir. I liked the wrong things, said the wrong words, acted the wrong way. I didn’t want any of the husbands they picked out for me, I never expressed interest in ‘continuing the family line’.” The storm that had raged inside the house when her family found out that her ‘inclinations’ didn’t suit the future they had envisioned left its mark on her. Indelible. Immutable. Something irreparable had broken between them that day. “Eventually they just told me to get in line and become their pretty little puppet, or lose everything. I wasn’t going to lose everything on their terms, so I made it my terms. I grabbed what I could and left. Guess they didn’t like me defying them again.”

Zoey seems to be frowning at her expense. “So…What happens if they ever catch you?”

She uses ‘if’. Not ‘when’. If. Inadvertently, it makes Mira smile.

“It’ll be the end of me,” Mira delivers the words with a blunt nonchalance of someone who has made peace with the roads ahead of them, someone who is determined to walk by their own power. She takes a sip of her cooling tea. “One way or another, Mira Song has to die.”

***

Mira meets those big, guileless brown eyes with her own masterfully honed glare. She’s proud of her glare. It’s reliable, sharp as a knife, and known to make grown men retreat in terror. It’s her most efficient repellent. Her brother would often say her face would get stuck like that, and she’s been waiting ever since. It would save a lot of energy. There is plenty to glare at in this world.

This time, however, it seems to not do much at all. The cow just keeps calmly chewing on… something.

“Don’t tug too hard, keep the pacing nice and even. They’re docile creatures, generally don’t care what you do long as they got feed, but every beast got their limit. Just pay attention to their body language and you’ll be fine. Just like humans, she makes a loud noise or sudden big movements, stop whatever you’re doing. If she gets aggressive just leave and call one of us over.” Lenny looks up at her, scratches his chin. “Get all that?”

“Yeah.” Mira quickly softens her expression into something a little more… vacant. 

Zoey’s plan to hide her identity from her boys had been thus: pretend at being Zoey’s friend’s uncle’s friend’s young nephew, with the overly tragic backstory of being recently rescued from confinement of his father’s basement because his father thought him an idiot, who is now facing trial or maybe fled town? Mira couldn’t quite remember. Point is, she’s had to keep her words few and simple, mostly communicating in grunts and gestures in an attempt to hide her gender. Her naturally low timbre had been a blessing so far, as well as her skill at keeping her mouth shut whenever it was necessary.

She thinks Zoey put it on a little thick, but her boys seemed content to accept anything she told them as truth. Even though the circumstances were strange and the timing suspicious, they’d just… accepted her into the fold. No questions, just affirmatives and a “We’ll whip him into shape, don’t you worry.”

They had to know, it’s all so obvious. But… nothing.

To be fair, she’s barely recognizable with her shortened hair hidden in her cap, men’s clothes hiding her curves, and the beginnings of a farmer's tan working its way into her skin. She’d done a double-take first time she caught her reflection in Zoey’s handmirror. She wonders if even her parents could pick her out of a crowd, now.

She imagines their looks of dismay and disgust, and grins.

Lenny looks at her a little strangely. “Right, I’ll be demonstratin’ now. Pay attention, boy.”

She crouches down next to him, where he’s sitting on a small wooden stool, and watches him milk. It should probably disgust her, but, honestly, it’s kind of fascinating. She’d been drinking milk her whole life, and never really thought about where it came from. 

“See the rhythm I got? Squeeze, and tug in a downwards motion. Left, then right, and repeat. Now you try.” He stands, offers the stool to her, and she takes his place. Somewhat hesitantly, she takes a hold of two of the teats and repeats his motions.

Absolutely nothing happens.

“You’re not trying to make love to her, boy, use some force.” Lenny snorts and jostles her, and Mira’s face immediately bursts into flame. Did he have to put it like that?

She tries again, this time squeezing harder, and a paltry stream of milk shoots into the bucket. 

“Well. Least your aim’s fine.”

“How’s Mir- uh Mike doing, Lenny?” Mira looks up to see Zoey leaning casually against the doorway, watching her in amusement, the afternoon sun glinting warmly in black hair. She resists the urge to pull a face at her. 

Lenny shrugs, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Doing better than Timmy’s first time.”

Zoey winces in sympathy. “Hard to be worse.”

Mira looks between them, raising a curious eyebrow.

Zoey grins. “You’ll get the story at dinner someday, it’s not the same if Timmy isn’t there to be all embarrassed about it.”

Great, so she’s beating a bar that’s in hell. Turning back to her task with renewed determination, she tries again to mimic Lenny’s movements, and after a few misfires, manages to find a decent rhythm. 

“Well, look at that. He’ll be of use yet.” Lenny pats her shoulder with a heavy hand, nearly making her tip over, but she manages to brace just in time. Zoey’s giggles tell her it didn’t go unnoticed.

“Be nice, Lenny.” The admonishment would probably be more effective if Zoey sounds a little more like she means it. 

“I’m being mighty nice, Ms. Jones. I’m saving the shit-shoveling for last.” Mira doesn’t trust the glint in this man’s eyes, it reminds her too much of herself, and she’s never up to any good when she’s got that slant to her mouth. “He’s so skinny we’ll lose him among the shovels.”

She squeezes just a little too hard at the insult and the cow makes an affronted noise and turns her head to the side to regard Mira with skeptical one-eyed scrutiny, still chewing. 

“Easy there, boy.” Lenny chides. “If it comes to a fight you’ll be the one worse off, trust me.”

Zoey shakes her head and gives her a reassuring smile. “Don’t listen to him, it takes a lot more to make Beatrice mad. She’s a sweetheart.”

“They’re all sweethearts until they’re mad.” Lenny’s grin reveals tobacco-stained teeth. “Much like a rancher I know.”

Mira hums at that. She doesn’t doubt it. Something tells her Zoey knows how to cut deep, should she wish to. And Mira seems to be making the baffling continuous decision to reveal more and more vulnerable parts to her anyway. Psychologically speaking. 

Zoey smacks Lenny playfully. He obviously pretends not to feel a thing. “I’ve got to get back. Will you two be alright?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Lenny taps his hat.

Zoey looks at her, obviously wanting a reply as well. Mira smiles slightly, nods, and with an undercurrent of conspiracy softly echoes, “yes, ma’am.”

A comfortable silence settles over them, where Mira works and Lenny keeps an eye. He’s either out of cheeky remarks or content with her technique, either way she’ll take it.

It’s almost meditative, until-

“You know you’ve still got to carry that bucket.” 

Mira halts, looks at the near-overflowing bucket, and sighs. Great.

He laughs, hooks his thumbs into his belt. “Don’t look so sour, boy! You could use the muscle!”

She hopes the calluses will form quickly.

***

Mira lifts her hat and wipes the sweat from her hairline as she squints at the ‘construct’ before her. What she wouldn’t give for a breeze. Just one. She’d give her unborn child. Her family name. She’d give… Well, she doesn’t actually own anything she can afford to lose, so she hopes God is feeling generous.

She knows what it’s supposed to be, but weather and time have worn it down to a single stick draped in ratty fabric pointing crookedly at the sky. What’s left of the arms lie half-buried beside it, and only scraps of rotten hay remain. To add insult to injury, an overgrown magpie is picking at the remains like it's looking for food. It squawks indignantly when she shoos it away, flapping aggressively at her to make a point before it takes off. 

Birds.

She sets the bundle of cloth and hay down, then the old paint can with a handful of nails rattling around inside, and starts to investigate.

Zoey’d suggested that, if she wanted a low-stakes project, the ancient scarecrow in the northern field needed fixing.

It’s perfect. They’re meant to be ugly, no-one's safety or comfort depends on them, and everyone else is working the other side of the ranch today.

It takes fewer nails than that damned chair, somehow, but leaves her arms sore and her clothes soaked. Instead of a ragged stick, now stands something vaguely humanoid, with a bucket for a head (including a crude face painted by Zoey), and lumpy and uneven stuffing, bits of hay sticking out everywhere. Making it wear her old dress, all dirty and tattered, in addition to feeling poetic, gives it a vaguely haunted feel.

“Wow, this is just like when I first met you!” 

Still catching her breath, hands on her hips, Mira slowly turns her head to glare at Zoey’s approach, who’s all bright smiles and innocent blinking. “Very funny.”

Zoey pretends to be offended. “People tell me I have a fantastic sense of humor.”

“How polite of them.” Mira deadpanned.

“How rude of you!” Zoey laughs and lightly nudges her shoulder.

Huh, that’s the first time Zoey’d touched her without either having a good reason or a breakdown about it.

It’s nice.

Mira can’t suppress a small smile and turns back to survey her handiwork. “We’ll see if it holds up to any wind.”

“If it doesn’t, you just do it better next time.”

That simple, hm? Maybe it is.

She lets Zoey lead her back to the house, satisfied with the ache in her shoulders and the gentle burn of the sun on her skin.

***

For the hundredth time that day, Mira wishes she had her glasses. Rubbing her brow to stave off the inevitable headache, she squints at the blurry numbers in front of her. A rough overview of monthly spendings derived from Zoey’s elaborate but messy accounts. The rancher had kept track more diligently than Mira’d hoped for, but there were still many small expenses unaccounted for, and she could not make heads or tails of the tracking system.

“Firewood… where’s the firewood.” She mumbles, shuffling through the ledger.

“Oh, Kyle usually arranges that, I’m sure he can tell you.” Zoey appears at her shoulder, setting a mug of tea down in a small clear spot. It takes a lot for Mira not to startle visibly. Quiet is the last way Mira would describe Zoey, but apparently if she wanted to, you’d never know she’s there.

There’s a bout of coughing from upstairs. Both of them wince.

“I’ll go see what he needs.” Zoey’s smile is an admirable effort. “You good here?”

Mira suppresses the desire to take Zoey’s hand, reassuring her somehow. It doesn’t feel like they’re quite there yet. But she hopes… “Yeah, thanks Zoey.”

The Zoey that leaves the room looks tired, the strong line of her back bending under an invisible weight. Mira lets out a breath through her nose as she watches her slowly disappear upstairs, tracks her movement through the creaking of the flooring and the soft squeak of doors. 

She’s helping. What she’s doing now is helping. The fraction of the burden she’s helping to carry is better than nothing. 

She sips her tea and gets back to work, growing headache be damned.

***

It’s the first time she sees past that ominously closed door, and it’s got her feeling surprisingly on edge. But when she enters, right on Zoey’s heels, it’s just a room. Gently darkened, curtains drifting slightly in the smallest of breezes but still stuffy regardless, smelling of the salt and sweet of old food and an unwashed body. Mr. Jones is a lump under the covers, frightfully still.

“Pa?” Zoey sits down with the careful movements of someone afraid to overwhelm, and puts a bowl of stew on the nightstand, replacing the half-empty, long-cold one from yesterday, which is put on the ground for now. “I’d like to introduce you to someone.”

“Is it-” Mr. Jones stirs with a cough, thank God, “-that rude woman?”

Mira admirably contains her snort. Yeah, what a bitch. 

“No.” Zoey chuckles quietly, “the opposite really.” She waves Mira over, who tentatively approaches and sets a second chair down next to Zoey’s. A perfectly normal, steady chair. She made sure.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Jones.” Mira bows her head politely. He’s partly what she expected, painfully thin, all skin and bones and sickly pallor. But also, unexpectedly, he looks like he’s white, maybe mixed, freckles scattered darkly across every inch of visible skin, rounder eyes, matted and greasy but obviously lighter brown hair. Zoey must get most of her features from her mother. 

Her suspiciously absent mother. Which is a topic Mira won’t broach until much, much later. It does explain the last name, though.

His eyes, glazed and sunken with sickness, languidly scan her. His tone is wary when he whispers, far too loud, “is he a tax-collector?”

Mira’s eyebrows shoot up. Does she look like a tax collector? What is it about her that screams tax collector? None of the boys said anything. Zoey would have told her if she looked like a tax collector, right?

“Pa,” Zoey giggles, “not everyone visiting us is a tax collector.”

Oh, she’s fine. He’s just paranoid. Good.

“Ah,” he relaxes back into his pillow and takes a rattling breath, “a new lover then. This one doesn’t look rich, Zoey.”

Mira smothers her laughter behind her hand, disguising it as a cough, and if it hides the blush in the darkened room then all the better. Didn’t he just wonder if she’s a tax collector?

Zoey just looks like a startled deer, wide eyes flitting between them both. “No! Uh- No, Mike here is a guest who is helping with the ranch.”

He looks confused. “A new worker, then? We don’t have the-” An explosive round of coughing erupts from him. It sounds wet and painful, his grimace threaded with fatigue.

“Yeah, well…” They’d had a few debates on what they’d tell Mr. Jones, and figured that for now, the less he knew the better, for his own safety. “He’s not asking for much, since he’s learning the ropes, and he’s volunteered to help out in the house, if you don’t mind.”

Mr. Jones makes a weak gesture of assent. “If you trust him with it, I do as well.”

“Would you mind terribly if,” Zoey tangles and untangles her fingers nervously, casting a cautious sideways glance at Mira, “if he helped you, as well?”

Mr. Jones’ eyes are back on her, measuring, weighing, suspicious. “You’d entrust me to a stranger?”

“He’s not a stranger to me,” Zoey counters affably, “and I’ll make sure to oversee everything he does at first. I promise,” Mira’s given a small smile, full with the weight of genuine faith, “you can trust him.”

Mira nods reassuringly at Mr. Jones, but her eyes are still caught on that smile, and suddenly Mira realizes that she’s in deep, deep shit. Because she wants to be worthy of that faith. She’s no longer thinking about hiding, fleeing, future nebulous and fraught. No, when she looks ahead, and lets herself drift along wishful thought, it’s these fields, this house, that smile.

Fuck.

As if her world hadn’t just fundamentally shifted, collapsing every single wall she’d ever built, Mira smiles winningly. “Don’t worry, Mr. Jones. I’ve nothing but the best intentions.”

***

“Zoey, do you have accounts from this winter? I need to check-” The moment Mira walks into the kitchen she knows misfortune is hot on her heels.

Zoey’s precariously balanced on a chair, reaching up towards a glass jar on the top shelf of one of the tall cabinets, tongue peeking out the side of her mouth in concentration. 

“Zoey, what are you doing?” Her cautious tone implies the question isn’t actually ‘what’, but ‘why’, and also ‘this is profoundly unwise’.

“Just… Almost…!” She strains.

Then Mira sees it.

It’s not just any chair.

It’s the chair.

Mira begins to hurry over. “Zoey, let me help.”

“I got it!” 

She doesn’t.

There’s a horrible groaning sound and Zoey suddenly starts to sink and pitch sideways. “Oh boy!”

In hindsight Mira probably should have realized that while Zoey is significantly shorter than her, she’s practically all muscle, and Mira’s arms are still only half-baked dough. The result is Zoey hitting her like a dropped cannonball and them both collapsing to the floor in a tangle of limbs. An elbow lands ungently on Mira’s sternum, knocking the breath from her lungs, and the back of Zoey’s head collides with her temple.

It takes a while for her to blink the stars away.

“Oh my god, are you okay? Are you bleeding? How many fingers am I holding up?” Zoey’s hands are decidedly not holding still enough for Mira to see more than a blur, so she opts for a groan.

Zoey’s hands are suddenly all over her, checking for injury no doubt. She tries to weakly slap them away, partially cause she’s pretty sure she’s fine, and partially because it’s making her skin feel uncomfortably taut and tingly. 

Startling herself, a chuckle finds its way between her attempts to catch her breath, and then suddenly the two of them are laughing, Zoey hiding her quickly reddening face in Mira’s shoulder.

She can’t recall when last she’d laughed like this. The embers of the hearthfire within her stoke into a small flame, lying here on the kitchen floor in a house filled with more kindness than she thought she’d ever see. The press of Zoey’s embarrassed chuckles into her shoulder, one hand on her wrist, the other dangerously close to her face, threatens to add more fuel to the fire than she knows what to do with.

Suddenly all she wants to do is touch her freckles.

Hm.

How hard did she hit her head?

“Can you sit up?” Zoey’s wiping tears of mirth from her eyes, looking at her too fondly and too closely.

Can she? Probably. Does she want to? Lying on the floor isn’t so bad. It’s surprisingly comfortable. She doesn’t really want the moment to end.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Zoey helps her sit up anyway, the hand at her back steady and warm. She scoots back against the cabinet, dropping the weight of her head back against it. It feels twice the size, but only on one side.

There’s a slash of red on Zoey’s arm, a thin trickle making its way down. Her heart stutters, and she reaches for it. “You’re bleeding.”

“Huh? Oh, I am.” Zoey sounds surprised, inspecting the wound like she doesn’t even feel it. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll deal with it later.”

Absolutely not. “We’ll deal with it now.”

“That’s not-” Zoey begins to protest, but Mira sharply shakes her head.

“Zoey, I’m fine.” She actually does feel like she’s fine, the pain slowly sinking away. She’ll have some bruises, but otherwise, she’s had worse. “Let me help?”

“I heal pretty quick, it’s no issue, I’ll just-” 

Mira pretends not to hear her. “Walk me through it?”

Now it’s no longer about Zoey, it’s about Mira. She’s made it about her learning, and Zoey teaching. So Zoey quietly nods, climbs to her feet to gather what she needs. Mira doesn’t bother hiding the self-satisfied quirk to her lips.

“Start boiling some water, I’ll be right back.”

Mira does as she says, then grumpily shoves the somehow still whole, but progressively more crooked chair into a corner. One of the nails she’d added, mostly filed down but still protruding slightly, is stained red. She’s tempted to note the damn thing down as firewood. Maybe sell it for parts. That way it might settle some of its debts. 

Zoey returns with some strips of cloth and a half-empty bottle of whiskey. Mira raises an eyebrow. “Planning on celebrating something?”

“It’s for disinfecting, dummy.” Immediate regret widens Zoey’s eyes and she recoils. “I mean… I mean…. Not like bad dummy! Good dummy! Does that makes sense? Oh no, did I cross a line? I crossed a line. It wasn’t really meant as an insult, honest!”

Mira snorts, entirely unoffended. “Who’s the one who used a broken chair to climb on?”

Zoey gapes at her. “It was the closest one! And besides, it’s not broken!”

Mira eyes the crooked wreck in the corner and clears her throat meaningfully.

The pout on Zoey’s face does not inspire the regret it should, instead Mira just feels warm. “Well it wasn’t before! It just had… character!”

Mira hums skeptically, attention returning to Zoey’s wound. It’s not bleeding very badly, at least. “So, what’s first?”

“First, we boil these for a little while.” Zoey’s about to grab the cloths but Mira is faster. Taking her shoulder she gently presses her down into one of the good chairs.

“Sit. Tell me what to do.” At Mira’s gently commanding tone, a flush of color rises in Zoey’s cheeks, who looks up at her with big eyes. 

“Uhh yeah, yeah, sure. Okay.”

Zoey swallows and Mira resists a smirk. “So, uh, you put the cloths in the water.”

“Do I stir?”

“Yeah, make sure they’re all fully soaked. It makes sure they’re clean.”

There’s a sort of tension between them as Mira works and Zoey oversees. The kind that keeps their voices more hushed than necessary and their eyes dancing away from each other. Mira holds Zoey’s arm like it’s made of porcelain when she cleans her wound. Not because she believes her to be fragile, but because the moment is, and their touches have never been so prolonged and so gentle. Necessity or not, Mira finds her heart beating just a little faster than it should, even if her hands are steady and her face perfectly controlled. Dragging wet cloth across Zoey’s arm feels like crossing a line, and she’s half-expecting her mother to walk in, gasp, and scold her for inappropriate behavior.

Pouring whisky over the wound has Zoey hissing, but she doesn’t flinch away, keeps her arm steady as Mira dresses it, shows her how to tie it so it wouldn’t unwind during the day, keep dirt and grit and sweat from sneaking through. 

“All done.” Zoey smiles at her, grateful, too soft. “Not so bad, right?”

Mira looks at her, steady, analyzing. “I have a good teacher.”

Bashful, Zoey looks at the ground. “Ah, this is just simple stuff. Anyone knows how to do it.”

“I didn’t.” Mira shrugs. “Take the compliment.”

Zoey huffs in a long-suffering way she doesn’t really mean. “Okay. Stubborn.”

“Like I said,” Mira’s mouth pulls crooked, eyes sparkling with mischief, “I have a good teacher.”